^  SD 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


ROADSIDE     FLOWERS 


ROADSIDE   FLOWERS 


A  BOOK   OF  VERSE 


BY 

HARRIET   M.  SKIDMORE 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

A.    M  .    ROBERTSON 

1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
A.  M.  ROBERTSON 


The  Murdock  Press 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RIDING  IN  A  STREET-CAR  9 

THE  NEVA'S  WHITSUNTIDE  GARLANDS  12 

THE  CHILDREN'S  CHRISTMAS  ANGEL  12 

THE  CHILD'S  WONDERFUL  ANSWER  13 

"LIFE  is  TOO  SHORT  TO  WORRY"  14 

"  FOLLOW  ME"  17 

HYMN  TO  THE  HOLY  FACE  l8 

THE  PARADISE  FLOWER  19 

THE  ROSARY  OF  FLOWERS  2O 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT  21 

SAINTS  PETER  AND  PAUL  IN  THE  MAMERTINE 

PRISON  23 

A  GREETING   TO  THE  FROST  24 

THE  VALUE   OF  A  MOTHER'S  TEARS  25 

THE  SOAP-BUBBLE  2J 

CITY  VERSUS   COUNTRY  27 
THE    CYNIC'S    FAREWELL     TO     THE     SUMMER 

AND  GREETING  TO   THE   FALL  29 

COPA   DE   ORO  31 

A   LEGEND  OF  THE  ASPEN  32 

THE  GUIDING   STAR  35 

THE   LILY   OF  CALVARY  36 

THE    LEGACIES  OF    OUR    DIVINE   LORD  38 
THE   COMING   OF   THE   WORLD'S    REDEEMER              39 


128831 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE  MAGNIFICAT  41 

DEW-DROPS  43 

THE  YEAR'S  NEW  KING  44 

THE  CHRIST-CHILD'S  DUMB  ADORERS  46 

SAINT  MARTIN'S  CLOAK  46 

THE  VISION  OF  CHARITY  48 

THE  CROWNLESS  KING  49 
"THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH"       51 

THE  BALLAD  OF  FRAU  BERTHA  52 

THE  SINNER'S  BELL  54 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE  OF  JERICHO  58 

GLORIFIED  DUST  5$ 

THE  CHARITY  OF  THE  POOR  6l 

A   LEGEND  OF  SAINT  MARTIN  63 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  MIGNONETTE  64 

KING  STEPHEN'S  PROTEGE  66 

THE  REWARD  OF  THE  PALM  71 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  MONK  FERNANDO  72 

DIVINE  MERCY  75 

VIVA,  SAN  FRANCISCO  !  76 
THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  NORWEGIAN  PRINCESS        77 

THE  FIRE  OF  PRAYER  80 

THE  GRACE  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS  CANDLE  83 

"THE  LAMB  is  THE  LIGHT  THEREOF"  83 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WEEPING-WILLOW  84 

A  THOUGHT  OF  EMERSON  86 

A  SAYING  OF  ANTONINUS  87 

A  THOUGHT  OF  HOLMES  87 

"  LEARN  OF  ME"  88 

"THE  TIDINGS  OF  GREAT  JOY"  88 


TIME'S  FLOWERS  —  THE  DAYS  89 

THE  GLASTONBURY  THORN  90 

THE   SACRED    HEART  91 

"THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE  is  CHARITY"  91 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SYRIAN  ROSE  92 

THE  DAISY  AND  THE  STAR  93 

THE  SAINT'S  SHADOW  94 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR  95 

THE  SILVER  DOVE  97 


ST 


RIDING  IN  A  STREET-CAR. 

T^RULY,  riding  in  a  street-car 
JL  Yieldeth  stores  of  fun; 
And  the  many  folks  you  meet  are 
Studies,  every  one! 

In  yon  corner  sits  a  toiler 
For  his  honest  needs; 
Next,  an  anarchistic  spoiler, 
Cursing  hand  that  feeds. 

Then  a  noisy  politician, 
Wrangling  with  another, 
Of  the  moon-eyed  John's  condition, 
As  a  "man  and  brother." 

Here's  a  poet,  musing  stanzas, 
Rhyming  ''rocks"  and  "shocks." 
There  's  a  seeker  for  bonanzas, 
Meditating  stocks. 

Whence  thy  scent  of  rose  and  jessamine, 
Araby  the  blest? 

Lo!  a  dandy  (splendid  specimen!) 
Deigneth  near  to  rest. 

But  within  the  crowded  street-car 
Doubtful  his  repose, 
Where  the  vulgar  folks  you  meet  are 
Fashion's  direst  foes. 


Riding  m  a    First  a  pair  of  school-girls  wriggle 

Street-Car.     Q,^  his   ^^  ^ 

Pushing  on,  with  pertest  giggle, 
To  a  corner  seat. 


Then  a  mother  fond  and  tender 
Bids  her  darling  stand 
Close  beside  the  man  of  splendor, 
And  its  cherub  hand 


Strokes  the  horror-stricken  dandy 
With  a  soft  caress, 
Smearing  with  molasses-candy 
All  his  faultless  dress. 

Scowls  he  on  Cornelia's  jewel, 
Shrinking  from  its  touch, 
Muttering  (ah!  the  monster  cruel!), 
"This  is,  aw — too  much!" 

Faster  filleth  now  the  street-car, 
And  the  entering  band, 
Hoping  for  a  cozy  seat,  are 
Treated  to — a  stand! 

Comes  a  woman,  old  and  weakly, 
Gray-haired,  poorly  dressed, 
Tottering  forward,  looking  meekly 
For  a  place  to  rest. 

For  a  place!   Ah,  vain  to  ask  it! 
Not  a  soul  would  stir 
E'en  although  the  heavy  basket 
Well-nigh  crusheth  her. 

10 


Presto!  change!    A  silken  rustle  Riding  ma 

Waketh  my  surprise,  Street-Car. 

And  with  glad  and  eager  bustle 
Quick  the  gallants  rise! 

Feathered,  jeweled,  fair  as  Venus, 
Comes  a  dashing  belle, 
Truly  of  a  kindred  genus 
With  the  dainty  "swell." 


Thronged  is  now  the  narrow  street-car- 
Strange  chaotic  scenes! 
Hapless  ones  without  a  seat  are 
Sandwiched  like  sardines. 

Lean  man's  elbow  in  my  eyes  is, 
As  he  holds  the  strap. 
Woman  of  prodigious  size  is 
Flopping  in  my  lap. 

Forth  I  rush,  all  breathless,  stifled 
By  the  noxious  air, — 
Forth  I  rush,  my  costume  rifled 
Of  its  freshness  fair; 

Yet,  despite  the  desperation 
Of  my  exodus, 

When  I  reach  my  destination, 
Runs  my  musing  thus: 

Really,  riding  in  a  street-car 
Yieldeth  stores  of  fun; 
And  the  many  folks  you  meet  are 
Studies,  every  one! 

II 


THE  NEVA'S  WHITSUNTIDE  GARLANDS.* 
r~F*HE  Neva  is  blooming  with  garlands  gay, 
JL  At  Whitsuntide  gather'd  by  girlish  hands, 
When  Winter  hath  taken  his  tyrant  sway 
From  the  vast  Muscovite  lands. 

When  the  sun  hath  melted  the  ice  and  snow, 
With  sharp  and  glittering  spears  of  gold, 
And  the  air  is  warmed  by  the   Spring's  soft 

glow, 
On  steppes  that  were  bleak  and  cold, 

Then  the  maidens  fashion  their  chaplets  fair, 
From  blooms  that  broider  the  river's  side, 
As  they  sing:  "O  Neva!  these  mem'ries  bear 
To  friends  that  are  wand'ring  wide." 

For  one  hath  a  lover  who  serves  the  Tsar, 
Or  a  woodman-sire  in  forests  deep, 
Or  the  worship'd  brother,  on  plains  afar, 
Tendeth  his  nobleman's  sheep. 

O  daughters  of  Russia!    still  keep  this  rite 
Of  a  tender  tradition  that  sends 
O'er  breast  of  your  Neva  such  mem'ries  bright 
Of  far  love-garlanded  friends. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  CHRISTMAS  ANGEL,  f 
'T^HE  sweet  stars  shine  and  sparkle 
JL  Like  eyes,  so  dear  and  fair; 
Down  floats  an  angel  through  them, 
With  treasures  rich  and  rare. 

*  The  Russian  maidens  have  a  pretty  custom  of  casting  gar 
lands  of  flowers  on  the  River  Neva,  at  Whitsuntide,  in  mem 
ory  of  absent  friends. 

t  Translated  from  the  German. 

12 


He  is  a  kindly  spirit;  The 

To  earthly  homes  he  brings  <$£££% 

And  with  full  hands  divideth  Angel. 
The  bright  and  lovely  things. 

While  round  him  sport  the  children 
In  wildest,  merriest  glee, 
A  little  bell  out-pealeth! 
The  snowy  pinions  flee! 
And  up  where  golden  starlight 
Through  holy  Heav'n  doth  gleam 
They  watch  the  angel  floating 
Soft  as  a  shining  dream! 

And  then  the  happy  urchins 
Leap  up  and  clap  their  hands, 
For  wide  the  doors  are  opened, 
And  right  before  them  stands, 
With  all  its  tapers  lighted 
And  full  as  full  can  be, 
The  angel's  crowning  present, 
The  starry  Christmas-tree! 


THE  CHILD'S  WONDERFUL  ANSWER. 

A  TRUE   INCIDENT. 

' '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  Thou  hast  per 
fected  praise." 

STAND  the  groups,  serenely  thoughtful, 
Upward  lifting  reverent  eyes 
Where  the  starry  flowers  of  Heaven 
Brightly  blossom  in  the  skies; 
And  they  speak,  those  earnest  gazers, 
Of  the  splendors  All  Divine 
That  beyond  the  fading  star-beams 
In  immortal  glory  shine. 

13 


The  Child's    Then  a  wise  and  holy  Prelate 
Answer         Questions  thus  that  awe-struck  band: 
"Is  there  anything  in  Heaven 
That  was  made  by  human  hand?" 
There  are  gray-haired  men  and  matrons 
In  the  upward-gazing  throng, 
But  to  solve  that  wondrous  question 
They  have  vainly  pondered  long. 

And  each  heart  is  strangely  burdened 
With  a  weight  of  mystic  fears, 
But  a  lad  whose  eye  enshrineth 
Wisdom  far  beyond  his  years 
Enters  softly,  as  the  Prelate 
Thus  repeateth  his  demand: 
"Tell  me,  is  there  aught  in  Heaven 
That  was  made  by  human  hand?" 

Then  this  thrilling  answer  falleth 

In  a  timid,  childish  tone: 

"In  our  dear  Lord's  risen  Body 

Seated  on  his  fadeless  Throne 

Are" — (the  lad's  sweet  voice  grows  softer, 

And  with  drooping  head  he  stands) — 

"Are  the  five  Wounds  of  Redemption 

Made  by  cruel  human  hands!" 


'LIFE  IS  TOO  SHORT  TO  WORRY." 

NOW,  tell  me  this,  my  nervous  friend, 
My  fussy  chronic   fretter, — 
Will  sighs  the  "good  luck"  nearer  send, 
Or  make  the  "bad  luck"  better? 
Why  give  to  Time  more  rapid  wings 
By  endless,  fuming  flurry? 
Ah!  true  refrain  your  rhymer  sings: 
"Life  's  all  too  short  to  worry!" 


If  stocks  go  down,  don't  let  your  ire  "£?/f  /* 

Quite  madden  and  o'erturn  you,  } 

If  you  will  rush  into  the  fire 

Be  patient,  though  it  burn  you. 

If  Fortune  beckon  from  her  car, 

Don't  run  in  headlong  hurry, 

For  hasty  steps  unwholesome  are, 

And  "Life  's  too  short  to  worry." 

If  you  that  hoped  to  serve  the  State, 
And  win  Ambition's  laurel 
Are  but  the  beaten  candidate, 
Don't  rail,  in  senseless  quarrel, 
At  those  ungrateful  voters  who 
Your  rival's  claims  prefer, — he 
May  find  his  task  too  great  to  do, — 
And  "Life  's  too  short  to  worry." 

If  ladies  prove  as  false  as  fair, 

Or  men  "deceivers  ever," 

Don't  sink  in  fathomless  despair, 

Or  veins  insanely  sever. 

"There's  good  fish  yet  as  e'er  was  caught," 

Though  that's  not  a  la  Murray, 

'Twill  chime,  a  cheering  sister  thought, 

With  "Life  's  too  short  to  worry." 


Creation's  lord!  if  boots  are  tight 
Or  buttonless  each  shirt  is, 
Sure,  swearing  will  not  set  it  right, 
And  wrath  a  greater  hurt  is. 
Ah!  what  said  Socrates  the  sage? 
Like   true   philosopher,   he 
Thought  time  too  valuable  for  rage, 
And  life  too  short  to  worry. 

15 


'Life  /JT          If  you  are  of  the  softer  sex, 

And  ruined  dresses  tease  you, 
Don't  let  e'en  that  your  spirit  vex, 
And  with  hysterics  seize  you. 
Nay,  't  is  too  vulgar  !     Every  grace 
Is  lost  by  fret  and  flurry, 
And  frowns  put  wrinkles  in  the  face, 
And — "  Life  's  too  short  to  worry." 

Keep  cool,  then,  O  ye  folks  of  nerves! 

Whate'er  the  aggravation; 

A  blister  on  a  wound  but  serves 

To  rouse  an  irritation. 

And  when  the  wind  is  in  the  south 

Feed  not  on  peppered  curry, 

For  ice  is  cooler  in  the  mouth, 

And — "  Life  's  too  short  to  worry." 


But  labor  on,  and  do  your  best, — 
Fulfill  your  trust  completely, — 
And  calmly  leave  to  God  the  rest, 
Who  "  ruleth  all  things  sweetly." 
Perfected  then  the  work  will  be, 
Unmarred  by  fuss  and  flurry, 
And  at  its  tranquil  close  you  '11  see 
Life  was  too  short  to  worry! 

Oh,  blest  the  man  whom  "  jar  and  fret  " 
Of  noonday  passeth  lightly! 
He,  when  his  evening  sun  shall  set 
And  starlight  glistens  brightly, 
Like  puss,  shall  bask  his  hearth  beside, 
Contented,  calm,  and  purry, 
Still  singing  as  the  moments  glide, 
"Life's  all  too  short  to  worry!" 
16 


FOLLOW  ME." 

MATTHEW    the     Publican,    at    Caphar- 
naum's  gate, 
Sits   gathering   there   the    grudged   unwilling 

toll, 

In  stolid  calm, — though  sneers  of  angry  hate 
Greet  the  scorned  servitor  of  Rome's  control. 

He  answers  not,  he  recks  not, — none  he  heeds 
Amid  the  throng, — nor  seemeth  e'en  to  see 
Forms  Pharisaic,  or  from  prancing  steeds 
The  gay  Herodians  tossing  careless  fee. 

And  though  he  heard  His  frequent  steps  who 

trod 

Lost  Earth  to  save  it,  yet  unconscious  still 
The  Sacred  Presence  of  that  hidden  God 
In  his  dulled  heart  awoke  no  reverent  thrill, 

Till    that    sweet    day    whereon    the    Master 

turned 

His  radiant  glance  full  on  him,  pityingly, 
And  while  his  soul  with  new,  strange  ardor 

burned 
That    Master's    voice    said    softly,    "  Follow 

Me!" 

Ah,  favored  publican!  thou  heedest  now, 
And,  swiftly  answering  to  that  tender  call, 
Thou  giv'st  to  Love  thy  apostolic  vow, 
For  His  sweet  sake  serenely  leaving  all. 

Dear  chosen  follower  of  the  Sacred  Heart! 
To  sinful  souls,  world-hated,  reckless,  lone, 
'Mid  throngs  like  thee,  yet  outcast  and  apart, 
Be  that  blest  look  of  boundless  pity  shown. 


Follow    Aye  though  their  Lord  hath  passed  unheeded 
Me:'  '    by 

For  years,  perchance,— O  may  that  sweet  day 

Theirs    too    at    last,    when    they    shall    meet 
And,  hearing!' heed  His  tender  "Follow  Me!" 


HYMN  TO  THE  HOLY  FACE. 

HAIL,  Holy  Face!    Hail,  Brow  Divine! 
Hail    Beauty  veiled  in  matchless  woe! 
Where,  'mid  the  thorns  that  rending  twine, 
The  ruby  drops  of  anguish  glow. 
Pierced  Forehead  of  the  Crucified! 
Our  dying  Saviour's  pallid  Brow! 
Let  haughty  head  and  heart  of  pride, 
Abashed,  before  Thee  humbly  bow. 

Hail,  Holy  Face!  Hail,  Lips  apart 
In  that  dread  agony  of  death! 
Pale  Portals!    whence  the  riven  Heart 
Sends  forth  its  last  love-prison  d  breath. 
Blest  Lips!  that  could  this  pardon  breathe: 
"  Forgive!  they  know  not  what  they  do! 
Bid  us  the  sword  of  hatred  sheathe, 
When  we  to  Heaven  for  mercy  sue. 

Hail,  Holy  Face!    Hail,  death-dim  Eyes, 
Where  love  still  shines  with  deathless  ray! 
As  'neath  the  gloom  of  dark'mng  skies, 
Yet  lives  the  light  of  glorious  day. 
O  tender  Eyes!  with  beams  of  love 
Illume  our  weak  and  erring  light, 
And  turn  our  gaze  to  realms  above       ^ 
"  Whereof  the  Lamb  is  e  er  the  Light. 
18 


O  Holy  Face!   may  we  so  shrine  Hymn  to  the 

Within  our  hearts  Thine  image  true,  Holy  Face. 

That,  crowned  with  majesty  divine, 
Thy  Brow  may  bless  our  rapturous  view, 
Thine  Eyes  with  smiling  glances  greet 
The  souls  Thy  love  hath  rendered  free, 
Thy  Lips  repeat  His  welcome  sweet: 
"Be  e'er  in  Paradise  with  Me!" 


THE  PARADISE  FLOWER:  A  LEGEND  OF 
THE  ROSE. 

r  I  ^HE  Paradise  Garden  was  closed  for  aye 
_L    To  the  sinful  and  sorrowful  pair; 
And  joyless,  unpardoned,  they  took  their  way 
Through  the  desert  so  bleak  and  so  bare. 
"Ah!   give  but  a   rose   from   my   loved,   lost 

bower!  " 

Prayed  the  desolate  Mother  of  men: 
"  Or    even    one    seed    of    that    blest    Queen 

Flower, 

Adorning  each  Paradise  glen." 
The     bright-winged     sentinel,     heeding     her 

moan, 

On  the  desert  a  rose-seed  cast: 
"Hope,  exile  of  Eden!    hope,  wanderer  lone! 
For  a  Heaven-sent  message  thou  hast!" 
Oh,  Mercy's  sweet  token  the  glad  Eve  nursed 
With  a  tender  and  vigilant  care, 
Till  numberless  buds  into  ripe  bloom  burst 
Over  all  the  wide  wilderness  bare. 

Man's  forfeited  garden  thus  gave  to  Earth 

The  gem  of  its  radiant  bowers, 

When    the    love-cheered    solitudes    saw    thy 

birth, 
Bright  Queen  of  the  Paradise  Flowers! 

19 


THE  ROSARY  OF  FLOWERS:  A  LEGEND. 
r  I  ^  HE  little  lay-Sister's  work  is  done, 
J_  For  the  west  is  rich  with  the  sunset's  ray, 
And  the  busy  hands  of  the  meek-souled  nun 
Are  resting  now  in  their  wonted  way. 
On  the  kitchen  table  those  hands  had  made 
As  fair  in  its  spotless  cleanliness 
As  her  own  white  robe,  they  are  gently  laid. 
But  the  toil-worn  fingers  fondly  press 
The  beads  of  a  rosary-chaplet  old 
That  had  hung  at  her  girdle  many  a  year. 
Ah!  priceless  pearls  and  a  chain  of  gold 
Could  never  be  to  her  heart  so  dear! 
But  she  looketh  now  through  a  tearful  mist 
On  the  Cross  that  figures  the  Man-God's  pain, 
Till  the  nail-rent  Feet  she  hath  often  kissed 
Are  wet  with  the  now  of  that  ceaseless  rain. 
And  sadly  she  murmurs :    "My  Lord !  my  Love ! 
Who  hast  given  so  freely  Thy  Life  for  me, 
What  gift  do  I  send  to  Thy  Throne  above? 
What  meet  reward  have  I  proffered  Thee? 
My  Sisters  waft  from  their  missals  fair 
Full  many  a  tender  and  prayerful  thought, 
And  they  offer  Thee  broideries  rich  and  rare 
And  delicate  lace,  by  their  deft  hands  wrought. 
But  I,  unlettered,  unskilled, — no  gift 
Is  mine  that  even  thy  Saints  may  see — 
And  these  ill-said  prayers!     Can  I  dare  to  lift 
Such  worthless  offerings  up  to  Thee? 
Wilt  Thou  bear  to  look,  with  Thy  gracious 

eyes 

On  my  "Gloria  Patris"?   Ah,  wondrous  sight! 
As  the  words  she  breathes,  on  the  table  lies 
A  knot  of  violets,  purple  and  white! 
Then,  startled,  knowing  scarce  what  she  said, 
She  tremblingly  uttered  her  Lord's  own  prayer! 
And  a  radiant  lily,  from  leaves  outspread, 
2O 


Its  sweet  balm  poured  on  the  grateful  air!        The  Rosary 
"Ave  Maria!"  the  Heav'n-blest  nun 
Went  on,  in  her  rapturous  ecstasy, 
And  the  brightest  of  roses,  one  after  one, 
Made  haste,  in  a  circle  entwined  to  be! 
So,  decade  by  decade,  in  murmurs  glad 
She  said,  till  a  Rosary  bloomed  like  these — 
Snow-white  for  the  joyful,  and  red  for  the  sad, 
And  gold  for  the  Glorious  Mysteries. 
That  marvelous  wreath!  it  is  fashioned  well — 
But  a  bright  flush  dyeth  her  faded  cheeks, 
For  a  Voice  as  soft  as  the  acolyte's  bell 
When  the  Host  is  lifted  above  her  speaks; 
O  follower  blest  of  the  better  part! 
Arise,  and  see,  at  thy  Spouse's  Feet, 
Thy  Rosaries,  kept  with  celestial  art, 
For    the    wreaths    are    finished!     the    chain's 
complete! 

The  little  lay-Sister,  prompt  before, 
Came  not  to  choir  on  that  strange  night, 
So  the  good  nuns  sought  her  the  Convent  o'er, 
And    found    her    dead    'neath    the    blossoms 

bright! 

But  lo!   on  the  table,  in  lines  of  gold, 
These  words  with  a  flamelike  luster  burned: 
"  The  prayers  of  a  pure  heart  here  behold, 
By  love  to  a  blossoming  Rosary  turned!  " 


O 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

1NCE  strolled  by  the  river  a  winsome  pair, 

In  the  beautiful  %<  Long  Ago," — 
A  brave  young  knight  and  a  lady  fair, — 
While  the  peace  of  the  Spring-tide  charm'd 

the  air, 
And  softened  the  sunset  glow. 

21 


Origin     ;par  down  by  the  brink  of  the  broad  stream 


me-not.    Sweet  flowers  that  matched  her  eyes. 

For  their  leaves  were  bright  with  the  self 

same  hue,  — 

'Twas  the  color  of  Truth,  the  tender  blue 
Of  Summer's  unclouded  skies. 


Then  the  maid  in  rapturous  wonder  cried: 

"Ah!    never  this  land  before 

Saw   Heaven's    own   blooms,    with    its    azure 

dyed. 

They  were  sown,  I  ween,  by  the  glorified, 
To  gladden  our  earthly  shore." 

Outspake  the  fond  lover:    "  O  lady  mine!  " 
(And  he  bent  o'er  the  stream's  bright  edge,) 
"  Those  heavenly  flowers  must  soon  be  thine. 
They  shall  hide  no  longer  their  charms  divine 
'Mid  noisome  rushes  and  sedge." 

Ah,  venturesome  knight!   thou  did'st  lean  too 

far 

Adown  from  the  slimy  bank, 
And  the  form  that,  scathless  from  wound  or 

scar, 

So  valiantly  strove  in  the  lengthen'd  war 
To  death  in  the  bright  stream  sank. 

But  ere  he  was  lost  to  her  frenzied  view, 
Spellbound  to  the  fatal  spot, 
Lo!  the  gather'd  blooms  to  her  feet  he  threw. 
And  cried  (O  lover  so  brave  and  true!): 
"  My  dearest!   forget  me  not!  " 

22 


So  the  ages  still  as  a  heritage  claim 

That  legend  of  long  ago; 

And  "  forget-me-not  "  shall  be  ever  thy  name,  me-not. 

Thy  sweet,  sad  gift  from  the  hand  of  Fame, 

Love's  blossom  of  azure  glow! 


T 


A  LEGEND  OF  SAINTS  PETER  AND  PAUL 
IN  THE  MAMERTINE  PRISON. 

captives  lay  bound  in  that  dungeon 

deep, 

In  foulest  caverns  of  haughty  Rome; 
The  leader  Love  chose  for  His  "  lambs  and 

sheep," 

And  he  who  guided  the  Gentiles  home. 
Ere  endeth  the  morrow,  lo !    each  will  die 
At  cruel  hands  of  a  ruthless  horde; 
One,  like  to  his  Lord,  they  will  crucify, 
And  one  destroy  with  the  Roman  sword. 
But  grace  by  the  prisoned  Apostles  brought 
Illumed    their    guards    with    its    Heaven-sent 

beam, 

And,  owning  its  Mercy,  they  swiftly  sought 
The  priceless  gift  of  the  saving  stream. 
When  Peter's  hand  traceth  the  Sacred  Sign 
Above  the  Mamertine's  reeking  floor, 
The  crystalline  floods  of  a  Fount  Divine 
Out  from  the  festering  foulness  pour! 
Ah!  brighter  than  dew  on  a  sunlit  lea, 
The  foreheads  wet  with  its  sweet  drops  glow. 
And  when,  on  the  morrow,  in  torrents  free, 
Your  blood,  O  Princes  of  Faith!   shall  flow, 
Aye,    when    to    the    "  joy    of    the    Lord "    ye 

spring, 

Your  martyred  jailers  that  bliss  will  share — 
For  ye  to  the  Kingdom  of  Love  shall  bring 
Their  soul-gems,  meet  for  its  Lord  to  wear. 

23 


H 


A    GREETING   TO    THE    FROST. 

AIL,  O  mimicry  of  Winter! 

Hail,  thou  shadow  of  the  snow! 
Fleecy  fragments  torn  from  cloudland. 
Just  to  veil  the  dust  below, 
Till  the  Midas-touch  of  sunshine 
Bids  it  turn  to  golden  glow. 
Yet,  thou  web  of  fairy  tissue, 
Crystal  essence  of  the  dew, 
Of  old  Winter's  northern  vestment, 
(Save  in  thine  unsullied  hue,) 
Thou  art  not  the  faithful  symbol, 
Thou  art  not  the  likeness  true, — 
Nay,  thou  'rt  but  a  fleeting  phantom, 
Evanescent,  thin,  and  frail. 
White  caprice  of  tropic  Winter, 
Who  hath  niched  the  bridal-veil 
From  the  cold  brow  of  the  Northland, 
Mocking  thus  its  landscapes  pale. 
Thine  the  charm  of  sweet  illusion, 
'Neath  the  Night  Queen's  silver  ray, 
Or  the  jewel  flash  of  starbeams; 
But,  when  comes  the  conqu'ring  Day, 
With  his  gleaming,  golden  lances, 
All  thy  splendor  melts  away. 
Yet  thou   bringest  fond  remembrance 
Of  the  Winter's  charms  of  yore, — 
Of  the  pleasures  never  tasted 
On  this  blossom-broidered  shore, 
Where  when  skies  have  wept  benignly 
Winter's  gentle  reign  is  o'er. 
Oh,  the  glory  of  the  Frost-King 
In  the  lands  beyond  the  sea! 
Where  his  icy  jewels  glisten 
On  the  lone  and  leafless  tree, 
And  his  ermine  robe  enfoldeth 
Faded  field  and  blighted  lea. 

24 


There  from  out  the  cold  blue  ether  ^Greeting 

Shine  the  stars  with  brighter  glow,  to  the 

There  the  pure  heart  finds  its  symbol  Frost. 

In  the  white,  unspotted  snow, 

And  the  calm  of  Heaven  is  mirrored 

On  the  peaceful  plains  below. 

Oh,  the  music  of  the  Winter! 

Oh,  the  laughter,  clear  and  sweet, 

Ringing  where  the  merry  sleigh-bells 

Onward  urge  the  coursers  fleet, 

Or  where  o'er  the  prisoned  waters 

Swiftly  speed  the  skaters'  feet. 

Oh,  the  tenderness  of  Winter! 

For  it  taketh  kindly  heed 

For  the  flowers  that  shall  spangle 

All  the  Summer's  smiling  mead, 

For  the  harvests  that  shall  ripen 

From  the  snow-protected  seed; 

And  its  loving  care  extendeth 

To  the  softly  sleeping  dead, 

For  its  mantle's  white  adornment 

On  the  lonely  grave  is  spread, 

E'en  till  Spring  shall  bid  the  daisies 

Blossom  o'er  each  grassy  bed. 

And  for  this  so  sweet  remembrance 

Shall  my  grateful  glances  hail 

E'en  this  mimicry  of  Winter, 

E'en  this  shadow  faint  and  frail 

Of  the  soft,  yet  lingering,  snow-drifts 

Of  the  Northland's  icy  veil. 


THE  VALUE  OF  A  MOTHER'S  TEARS. 

A  SAINTLY  mother  for  her  dear  one  wept, 
/\  And  pleaded  day  by  day. 
The  sinful  son  in  erring  courses  kept, 
Nor  sought  the  heavenward  way. 

25 


s       «?ut  thus  the  holy  Bish°P  calmed  her  fears: 
Tears.  "Take  courage;  for  that  son 

For  whom  thine  eyes  have  shed  so  many  tears 
Will  yet  by  grace  be  won." 


Hope  filled  her  heart;  at  last  sweet  triumph 

came, — 

Blest  crown  of  tearful  prayer, — 
The  Church  of  God  records  Augustine's  name 
High  on  her  tablets  fair. 


And  rare  art-gem,  by  gifted  pencil  done, 
Portrayeth  wondrously 
That  saintly  mother  with  her  saintly  son 
Communing  by  the  sea. 


O  Christian  mothers!  who  unceasing  weep 
For  dear  ones  day  by  day, 
That,  demon-led,  in  sinful  courses  keep, 
Nor  seek  the  upward  way, 


Let  holy  Monica  with  potent  art 
Give  consolation  sweet, 
As  her  blest  lips  to  each  despairing  heart 
These  words  of  strength  repeat: 


"List,  pleaders  fond!    Bid  Hope  dispel  your 

fears ! 

The  wild  and  wayward  son 
For  whom  a  mother  sheds  her  prayerful  tears 
Shall  yet  by  grace  be  won!" 

26 


THE  SOAP-BUBBLE.* 

^REMBLINGLY  'tis  born,  and  timidly  it 
X  grows, — 

First  in  palest  tints  of  amaranth  and  rose, 
Till  its  brilliant  face  with  rainbow  splendor 
glows. 

Wafted  by  a  breath,  it  leaves  its  cradle  fair, 
And  in  swelling  pride,  borne  on  wings  of  air, 
Seeketh  sunlit  space,  and,  soaring,  dieth  there. 

Thus  illusions,  born  in  Hope's  caressing  sigh, 
Win  the  rainbow's  hues,  and  forth  like  bub 
bles  fly, 

Fill    the    thoughts    with    light,    and,    proudly 
soaring,  die. 


CITY    VERSUS    COUNTRY:    A    COCKNEY'S 
LYRIC. 

T     ET  others  sing  in  lyrics  sweet, 
_L  And  chant  in  softly  flowing  measures 
Their  praise  of  Nature's  green  retreat, 
Their  eulogies  of  rural  pleasures. 
Aye,  let  them  seek  the  sylvan  shade 
Where  leafy  boughs  are  gently  waving, 
And  find  within  the  mossy  glade 
Sweet  spots  for  sentimental  raving. 

I  scorn  the  charms  of  country  bloom. 
And  coldly  turn  from  streamlets  singing, 
For  me  the  groves  are  filled  with  gloom 
And  caterpillars,  foully  clinging. 

*  Translated  from  the  Spanish. 
27 


versus      My  muse  sha11  ring  an  urban  chime, 
Country.    And  troll  a  glad  street-organ  ditty, 

And  praise  (albeit  in  jingling  rhyme) 
The  Cockney's  loved  and  lovely  city. 

Its  crowded  streets  are  dear  to  me, 
And  sweetly  sounds  its  busy  clatter; 
At  gay  shop  windows,  fair  to  see, 
I  love  to  stop  and  gaze  and  chatter. 
Why  should  I  sigh  for  meadow  s  bloom, 
When  blossoms  deck  the  last  new  bonnet? 
Can  I  not  buy  each  bud's  perfume 
Distilled,  with  Lubin's  label  on  it? 

Why  drench  my  skirt  and  soak  my  shoe 
With  crystal  drops  in  woodland  shining? 
Lo!    diamonds  brighter  than  the  dew, 
On  velvet  thrones  with  satin  lining! 
The  peach  may  grace  the  rustic's  dish, 
The  grape  may  hang  its  drooping  stem  on, 
Like  Sydney  Smith,  /  do  not  wish 
To  be  "  ten  long  miles  from  a  lemon." 

For  moonbeams,  and  for  waters  wide 

Enough  to  sail  the  fleet  of  Jason, 

I  '11  gaslight  take,  and  streams  that  glide 

Both  hot  and  cold  to  bath  and  basin. 

Ah!  tell  no  more  of  verdant  lanes, 

In  poet's  fair  fictitious  story, 

While  dust-clouds,  raised  by  creaking  wains, 

Bedim  your  summer  toilet's  glory. 

Give  me  instead  the  pavement  clean, 
O'erspread  with  awning-shadows  gracious, 
Or,  better  still,  a  ride  serene 
Within  a  street-car  smooth  and  spacious. 

28 


E'en  would  I  rather  pace  the  town? 

Beneath  a  shadeless  "  sol  ardente,  Country. 

Than  take,  where  bugs  are  dropping  down, 

Your  arbor's  "  dolce  far  niente." 

So,  keep  your  calm  Arcadian  wild, 
Your  country  Eden's  sweet  seclusion, 
I'm  still  the  city's  faithful  child, 
And  love  its  Babel-voiced  confusion. 
Not  single  in  this  taste  I  am, — 
All  hail  the  "gentle  Elia  "  witty!— 
The  gifted  Cockney,  Charley  Lamb, 
Who  "hated  fields,"  and  loved  the  city! 


L 


THE   CYNIC'S   FAREWELL  TO   THE  SUM 
MER  AND  GREETING  TO  THE  FALL. 
IKE  our  immortal  Washington, 

"  I  cannot  tell  a  lie," 

I  cannot  hide  the  happy  smile 
Beneath  the  heavy  sigh, 
Nor  bid  the  hated  visitor 
A  lachrymose  good-by. 

And  so  unto  our  summer  queen 

In  savage  tones  I  say, 

Thou  art  a  vixen  and  a  shrew! 

And  on  our  town  and  bay 

I  'm  glad  to  see  thee  turn  thy  back 

And  flounce  in  wrath  away! 

I  've  nought  but  angry  memories 
And  spiteful  thoughts  of  thee, 
For  thou  didst  bring  thy  furious  blasts 
Across  the  Western  Sea, 
And  bid  them  rage  through  weary  months 
In  wild  and  fiendish  glee. 
29 


The  Cynic's    And  thou  didst  veil  the  azure  skies 

Farewell.         jn  vapors  chill  and  graVj 

In  palls  of  damp  and  dreary  fog 
That  lift  not  night  or  day, 
That  shroud  within  their  leaden  folds 
Sun,  moon,  and  starry  ray. 


And  thou  didst  bid  a  rain  of  dust 
Succeed  the  vernal  showers, 
And  steal  the  emerald  from  the  lawn, 
And  brightness  from  the  bowers, 
And  with  its  sickening  scent  destroy 
The  fragrant  breath  of  flowers. 


I  hate  thee,  Summer,  everywhere ! 

On  far  Atlantic's   coast, 

Beneath  thy  scorching,  dazzling  beams 

The  wretched  natives  roast, 

Till  the  maiden's  lily  hand  grows  like 

A  slice  of  blackened  toast. 


Ah,  pleasant  is  the  balmy  Spring, 

When  blossom-broidered  plains 

Are  dewy  with  soft  memories 

Of  kindly  Winter  rains, 

And  rows  of  blooming  orchard-trees 

Lean  o'er  the  grassy  lanes. 

And  pleasant  is  the  Autumn  bright, 

With  tranquil  sunny  days, 

When  blasts  are  hushed  to  zephyrs  bland, 

And,  touched  by  magic  rays, 

The  mists  become  the  mountain's  crown 

Of  dreamy  purple  haze. 

30 


And  so  I   hail  thee,  season  loved!  The  Cynic's 

October,  welcome  be!  Farewell. 

With  matin  praise  and  evening  lays, 
And  smiles  of  ceaseless  glee, 
That  shine  responsive  to  the  light 
Thou  shed'st  o'er  land  and  sea. 

But  unto  thee,  O  Summer  vile! 

In  spiteful  tones  I  say, 

Good  riddance  to  thee,  blusterer! 

For  on  our  town  and  bay 

I  'm  glad  to  see  thee  turn  thy  back 

And  frowning,  flounce  away! 


COPA  DE  ORO. 

A   PLEA    FOR    THE    SPANISH    NAME    OF    THE   ESCH- 
SCHOLTZIA — COPA  DE  ORO    (CUP  OF  GOLD). 

LONG  ere  the  strong-limbed  miners  tore 
From  out  thy  heart,  fair  land  of  gold, 
Uncounted  wealth  of  shining  ore 
Deep  buried  in  thy  mountains'  hold, 


Up  from  the  quartz-veined  rocks  below, — 
Oh,  strange  yet  fitting  birth-place! — came, 
To  greet  the  sunlight's  kindred  glow, 
A  wondrous  flower,  with  leaves  of  flame. 

They  who  first  hailed  its  gleam  among 
The  paler  blooms  of  mead  and  wold 
Called  it,  in  soft  Castilian  tongue, 
"  Copa  de  oro — cup  of  gold." 

We  own  the  name  most  sweet  and  true, 
Who  see,  when  vernal  skies  are  bland, 
Its  golden  chalice,  gemmed  with  dew, 
Unclose  at  Morning's  gay  command. 

31 


Copa        in  later  years,  a  pilgrim  came 
de  Oro.    prom  far  beyond  the  tossing  sea, 

Who  bade,  with  harsher  alien  name, 

Our  chosen  blossom  sullied  be. 

But  let  us  from  its  leaves  efface 
That  stain  unsightly,  and  once  more 
Bring  back  its  ancient  title's  grace 
To  deck  it  as  in  days  of  yore. 

It  is  thy  emblem  true  and  bright, 
O  radiant  Empire  of  the  West! 
It  wears  thy  robe  of  flame-hued  light, 
Thy  sunbeam-halos  wreathe  its  crest. 

In  fancies  of  poetic  dreams 
T  was  fashion  d  from  thy  shining  ore, 
And  rose  to  shed  its  golden  gleams 
O'er  all  thy  bloom-enameled  shore. 

So,  wondrous  flower  with  leaves  of  flame, 

In  future  as  in  times  of  old, 

Still  wear  thy  sweet  Castilian  name 

Of  "  Copa  de  oro — cup  of  gold." 

Chamisso,  the  German  poet,  on  a  visit  to  California,  many 
years  since,  discovered  this  flower  and  named  it  Eschscholtzia, 
for  his  friend  and  botanist,  Eschscholtz ;  but  its  old  Spanish 
name  was  "  copa  de  oro  "  (cup  of  gold).  This  flower  has  been 
chosen  as  the  emblematic  flower  of  California. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  ASPEN. 

WITHIN  a  sunlit  meadow  stood 
A  restless  aspen-tree,— 
Far  from  the  dim  and  crowded  wood, 
Where  no  fantastic  dreamer  could 
Its  mystic  trembling  see. 

32 


But  there,  where  Summer's  cloudless  ray        Legend  of 
Illumed  its  shuddering  leaves,  the  Aspen. 

I  watched  them  through  the  long  bright  day, 
Spellbound,  as  on  the  grass  I  lay, 
Amid  the  banded  sheaves. 

In  breathless  noons  they  trembled,  till 
I  asked,  overcome  with  awe, 
What  nameless  fear  hath  made  ye  thrill? 
What  dreadful  scene,  remembered  still, 
That  once  your  branches  saw? 

In  words  poetic  faith  receives 
This  legend  answers  me — 
Suiting  the  dream  that  Fancy  weaves 
Around  thy  ever  restless  leaves, 
Mysterious  aspen-tree! 

The  wayworn  Three,  who  "  rose  by  night," 
And  o'er  the  desert's  sand, 
By  angels  guarded,  took  their  flight, 
Through  torrid  day  and  sultry  night, 
To  Egypt's  safer  land, 

Aneared  at  last  their  blest  retreat, 
And  at  its  entrance  fair 
A  grove  they  saw,  a  shelter  sweet 
For  drooping  forms  and  weary  feet, 
Serenely  waving  there. 

T  was  formed  of  every  tree  that  grows 
Within  the  forest  bower, — 
Aye,  every  leafy  branch  that  throws 
Cool  shadow  when  the  sunlight  glows 
With  Summer's  fervid  power. 

33 


Legend  of   As  nearer  came  the  wearied  Three, 
the  Aspen. 


In  homage  bowed  each  graceful  tree,  — 
For  Nature's  guiltless  eyes  could  see 
And  know  its  hidden  God. 

Ah!    sooth,  it  was  a  picture  rare 
For  artist's  reverent  hand,  — 
The  Mother-Maid,  the  Infant  fair, 
Their  guardian,  with  his  silvered  hair, 
And  that  bent  forest  band. 


But  one  —  the  stately  aspen-tree  — 
Refused  the  worship  blest. 
In  pride  that  would  not  humbled  be 
She  raised  her  branches  haughtily 
And  reared  her  leafy  crest. 

The  Saviour  saw,  —  an  instant  fled,  — 

Then  'neath  His  lightning  gaze 

The  rebel  bowed  her  lofty  head, 

While  through  each  leaf  a  sword-thrill  sped 

Of  horror's  wild  amaze. 

And  since,  though  peaceful  Summers  shine 

And  breathless  noontides  glow, 

By  trembling  strange  —  the  fearful  sign 

Of  ceaseless  malison  Divine 

The  aspen's  branches  show. 

This  tale  poetic  faith  receives, 
This  legend  answers  me, 
And  suits  the  dream  that  Fancy  weaves 
Around  thine  ever  restless  leaves, 
Mysterious  aspen-tree! 

34 


THE  GUIDING  STAR:  A  CHRISTMAS 
POEM. 

WHEN  the  sages  from  afar 
Sought  the  birthplace  of  the  King, 
Lo!  a  star  no  cloud  could  bar 
Led  their  ceaseless  journeying. 

On  it,  as  it  "went  before," 
Ever  turned  their  eager  gaze, — 
Sea  and  shore  they  traversed  o'er, 
Guided  by  its  mystic  rays, 

Till  it  stood — that  beacon  blest — 
Where  Love's  Light  lay  veiled  and  dim, 
And  (at  rest  from  wondrous  quest) 
"  Entering  in  "  they  worshiped  Him, 

Where  for  shepherds  as  for  them 
(By  the  Star  of  Faith  revealed), 
Shone  Love's  Gem  in  Bethlehem, 
From  the  churlish  town  concealed. 

"Men  of  good  will"  near  and  far 
Daily  seek  the  King  of  kings, 
And  the  Star  no  cloud  can  bar 
Guides  their  eager  journeyings, 

Till  o'er  Love's  wide-opened  door 
Lo!  they  see  its  glory  shine 
Evermore,  their  God  before 
(Hidden  in  His  altar-shrine). 

For  that  "Olive-Starlight's"  beam 
From  Love's  sanctuary  blest, 
E'er  shall  stream,  with  fadeless  gleam, 
Pointing  there,  the  pilgrim's  rest. 

35 


THE  LILY   OF  CALVARY:  A   LEGEND  OF 
THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

OVE'S  work  was  o'er— aye,  all  was  con 
summated; 

His  Saving  Blood  no  longer  redly  streamed; 
For  Death  Divine  had  thirst  of  Justice  sated 
And  captive   Earth  redeemed. 


L 


And  he  whose  lance  with  ruthless  thrust 
unsparing 

From  Love's  rent  Heart  poured  out  its  last 
sweet  flow, 

Came  slowly  now,  his  favored  weapon  bear 
ing, 

Adown  the  Mount  of  Woe. 


Still  on  his  spear  a  single  drop  hung  brightly, 
By  hov'ring  angels  guarded  tremblingly. 
Ah!  must  it  fall  in  roadside  dust  unsightly, 
And  foully  trampled  be? 


Nay!  sprang  to  birth  a  wondrous  lily-flower, 
And  on  its  breast  the  precious  drop  reposed; 
But  when  its  leaves  received  their  priceless 

dower 
Those  radiant  petals  closed. 


A  bright  archangel,  o'er  the  blossom  bending, 
With  reverent  hand  detached  it  from  the  sod, 
And  on  swift  wing  to  heavenly  Home  ascend 
ing, 
In  fadeless  fields  of  God 

36 


With  loving  care  the  sacred  bloom  he  planted,  The  Lily  of 
But  though  it  loved  its  blest  abiding-spot,        Calvary. 
The  angel's  dearest  wish  was  left  ungranted — 
The  bright  bud  opened  not. 


When   willing  hearts   accepted   Love's   sweet 

story, 

His  sacred  Cross,  no  longer  thing  of  shame, 
From   Christian  spires  shed  down  its  tender 

glory 
O'er  Earth,  that  blessed  its  name. 


And  when  they  saw  the  long  and  pure  pro 
cession 

(Clasping  that  cross)  o'er  many  a  pagan  clime 

March  bravely  on  in  ceaseless,  glad  succes 
sion 

To  Martyrs'  death  sublime, 

Then  Heaven's  bright  hosts,  before  their 
Monarch'  kneeling, 

Thus  craved:  "O  Hand  that  every  boon  con 
fers! 

The  lily  ope — its  precious  gift  revealing 

To  faithful  worshipers." 


The  King  of  kings  above  that  blossom  bend 
ing, 
His  Hand  outstretched, — thus  doth  the  legend 

tell- 
Swift  oped  the  flower,  and,  earthward  fondly 

tending, 
The  gracious  Blood-Drop  fell 

37 


The  Lily  of  Within  a  chalice  at  that  moment  lifted, 
Calvary.        By  priest  of  God,  with  deep,  adoring  awe, 

And  his  pure  eyes,  with  sight  supernal  gifted, 

The  glorious  Wonder  saw, 

While  lowly  bowed  in  deepest  adoration 
A  sweet-souled  maid  thus  murmured  tenderly: 
"My  Lord!  my  Love!  in  fullest  consecration 
I  give  myself  to  Thee!" 

How  meet  that  of  His  creature's  blest  sur 
render 

His  Heart's  last  drop  should  pledge  and 
witness  be, 

At  that  first  vow— that  first  oblation  tender 

Of  virgin  Purity! 


THE  LEGACIES  OF  OUR  DIVINE  LORD* 
H!  list  to  His  mystical  testament 
Who  suffered  His  world  to  save: 
His  seamless  robe,  by  their  rude  hands  rent, 
To  His  murderers  vile  He  gave. 


A 


The  penitent,  paying  for  crime  its  price, 
He  offered  His  pardon  free. 
Thus  saying,  'To-day  in  My  Paradise 
Thou  shalt  blissfully  bide  with  me." 

To  the  dearest  of  all  His  chosen  ones 
The  agonized  Man-God  left 
His  Mother  so  loved,  of  the  Son  of  sons 
By  His  blood-bought  race  bereft. 

*  Suggested  by  a  quotation  from  an  ancient  sacred  writer 
made  in  a  recent  sermon  by  one  of  the  Paulist  Fathers. 

38 


To  all  who  will  follow  the  Master's  Feet         ^Sr  Divine 
O'er  the  "strait  and  narrow"  road  Lord, 

The  priceless  boon  of  His  benison  sweet 
His  bounteous  Love  bestowed. 

But — be   warn'd,   ye    slaves    to   the   greed   of 

gain— 

The  legacy  of  His  curse 

Was  the  hand's  made  foul  by  avarice-stain, — 
For  to  Judas  He  gave — the  purse! 


THE   COMING  OF  THE   WORLD'S 
REDEEMER. 

"TTE  will  come!"  the  Prophets  chanted,  and 
11     their   Heav'n-inspired   song 
Floated  down  in  ceaseless  echoes  through  the 

ages  sad  and  long; 
"Hail!    O  Bethlehem  of  Judah!    not  the  least 

nor  lowest  thou, 
For  to  Him  from  thee  proceeding  shall  the 

conquered  nations  bow!" 
"He  will  come!"  the  people  shouted,  "unto 

us,  His  chosen  race! 
And    His   arm   shall   hurl   the    Gentiles   from 

His  children's  rightful  place; 
On  the  throne  of  royal  David  He  shall  wear 

His  kingly  crown, 
Unto  Israel  thus  restoring  ancient  glory  and 


But  he  came  not  crowned  with  splendor,  led 

by  worldly  pomp  and  din, 
And    for    Him    His    haughty    nation    had    no 

room  in  heart  or  inn. 
But    the    Just    Man    watched    beside     Him, 

where  His  sinless  Mother  smiled 

39 


Coming  oj '     O'er    the     straw-laid    manger    bending    that 
*  enthroned  her  kingly  Child. 

"He  will  come!"  the  shepherds  murmured  as 

they  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 
But   the    Lord    shone    round   about   them,    in 
His  floods  of  dazzling  light. 

And  His  angels  sang:  "He  cometh!  Unto  ye 

the  Christ  is  born!" 
And  His  lovely  ones  first  hailed  Him  on  His 

glorious  birthday  morn. 
"He  hath  come!  the  true  Messiah!"  spake  the 

chosen  Gentile  Kings, 
Through  the  careless  city  passing  with  their 

costly  offerings. 
"We  have  journeyed  to  adore  Him  from  our 

Eastern  climes  afar, 
Safely  led  o'er  waste  and  desert  by  His  mystic 

guiding  star." 

''He  hath  come!"  still  sing  His  angels,  at  the 

holy  Christmas  time. 
"He  hath  come  !"  the  sweet  bells  echo  pealing 

out  the  Christmas  chime. 
"He   hath   come!"   still   sing   His   loved   ones, 

while  with  eager  steps  they  pass, 
To  His  altar-cradle  speeding  in  the  Christmas 

Midnight   Mass. 
"He  hath  come!"    Oh,  haste  to  greet  Him, 

lowly  shepherds,  lofty  kings, 
With    your    simple,    sweet    heart-tokens    and 

your  rich  soul-offerings. 
For    His    glory    shineth    round    ye,    and    His 

Starlight  ne'er  shall  cease, 
Till  it  guides  ye,  "men  of  good-will,"  to  His 

blest,  Eternal  Peace. 

40 


I 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT. 

N  olden  time  an  abbey  stood 
_  Within  a  vale  secluded,  lowly, 
Where  dwelt  a  white-robed  Brotherhood 
Of  friars,  meek  and  holy, 
Who  kept  their  rule  with  strictness  true 
Nor  slighted  e'en  the  meanest  labor — 
For  't  was  their  life's  sole  aim  to  do 
Love's  work  for  God  and  neighbor. 

But  all  in  vain  they  strove  to  bring 

To  sweet  success  one  sacred  duty. 

Their  aged  voices  could  not  sing 

The  Hours  with  tuneful  beauty. 

The  woodland  birds  that  oft  before 

Upon  their  chapel's  roof  alighted, 

In  terror  fled,  to  come  no  more, 

By  discords  harsh  affrighted. 

And  so  the  Abbot  willingly 

His  children's  earnest  pleading  granted: 

"That  words  of  Sacred  Office  be 

Devoutly  said,  not  chanted — 

All  save  Our  Lady's  Hymn — Ah!  that 

Recited,"  said  he,  "  can  be  never — 

For  Mary's  own  Magnificat 

Must  live  as  song  forever." 

Time  passed,  until  one  festal  eve 
A  sweet-voiced  singer  seeks  admission, 
And  him  the  grateful  monks  receive 
As  Heaven-sent,  blest  addition. 

"For,  now,"  they  cry,  "our  Mother's  hymn 
Will  chanted  be  with  fitting  sweetness." 
So  when  through  vaulted  arches  dim 

41 


In  Melody's  completeness, 
°Magnificat.    Resounds  the  singer's  glorious  voice, 
In  silent  ecstasy  they  listen, 
Their  hearts  with  wordless  prayers  rejoice, 
Their  eyes,  enraptured,  glisten. 

By  ceaseless  homage  rendered  vain, 
The  singer's  heart,  with  proud  elation, 
Swelled,  as  he  thought,  "My  gifted  strain 
Fills  all  with  admiration. 
Aye,  e'en  the  wood-birds  throng  once  more 
The  chapel's  window-sills,  delighted — 
Nor  flee  in  terror,  as  before, 
By  tuneless  sounds  affrighted." 

Lo!  came  an  angel  visitant. 

And    asked    the    monks:    "What    stills    your 

singing? 

For  now  no  note  of  Mary's  chant 
From  out  your  home  is  ringing. 
Ah!  when  those  echoed  tones  sincere 
Resounded  through  our  Golden  Portal, 
Their  heart-felt  fervor  charmed  the  ear 
E'en  of  the  King  Immortal." 

The  singer  left  that  peaceful  dome, — 
Humility's  stern  lesson  learning, — 
While  to  a  distant  cloister-home 
His  footsteps  meekly  turning. 

Their  crudely  sung  Magnificat 
The  monks  resumed,  by  zeal  incited, 
And  though  the  woodland  birds  thereat 
Still  trembled,  sore  affrighted, 

42 


Yet,  when  on  high  those  echoes  sound, 

Approving  Heaven  once  more  rejoices,  Magnificat. 

For  Love  with  true  success  has  crowned 

His  servants'  reverent  voices, 

That,  every  day,  their  tone  sincere 
Sent  echoing  through  the  Golden  Portal, 
To  bid  the  King  with  gladness  hear 
His  Mother's  song  immortal. 


DEW-DROPS. 

WHEN  the  sultry  daytime  endeth, 
With  its  cruel  drought  and  dearth, 
Then  the  balmy  dew  descendeth 
To  the  faint  and  fevered  Earth, 
With  its  soft,  benignant  showers 
Bidding  languid  leaves  unclose, 
Waking  life  in  faded  bowers, 
Sprinkling  diamonds  o'er  the  rose, 
And  the  welcome  nectar  bringing 
To  the  drooping  lily's  cup, 
Till  her  censer,  gayly  swinging, 
Grateful  incense  offers  up. 
Precious  drops!  from  Heaven  descending, 
Ah,  how  well  ye  typify 
Sacred  dew  of  Grace,  unending, 
Sent  from  Mercy's  fount  on  high. 

First,  in  Life's  auroral  morning, 
From  its  blest  baptismal  showers 
With  celestial  gems  adorning 
Fresh,  unsullied  human  flowers — 
When  the  noontide's  dust,  unsightly, 

43 


Dew-drops.    Dims  each  bloom  with  blighting  stain, 
Dew  of  Penance,  falling  lightlv. 
Cleanseth  all  with  potent  rain. 
And  when  Life's  long  daytime  endeth, 
And  the  Night  comes,  still  and  calm, 
Sacred    Unction's    dew    descendeth, 
Rich  with  gifts  of  healing  balm. 
Lo!  at  dawn  the  angels  gather 
(For  the  fair,  immortal  bowers 
Shrined  in  Kingdom  of  the  Father) 
Wealth  of  Grace-dewed  spirit  flowers. 


THE  YEAR'S  NEW  KING. 

NE,  at  close-locked  entrance  waits, 
Rich  in  radiant  panoply. 
Loud  his  trumpet:  "Ope  your  gates, 
Kingdom  of  the  year,  to  me! 


o 


"Lies  the  graybeard  stark  and  still, 

Dead  upon  his  sable  bier: 

Ope,  then,  at  the  royal  will 

Of  his  heir,  the  youthful  year!" 

Soon  the  drawbridge,  ringing,  falls 
O'er  the  darkly  gleaming  moat; 
Soon  above  the  towered  walls 
Fair  new  banners  proudly  float. 

Wears  the  prince  his  father's  crown, 
Seated  on  that  father's  throne. 
Servile  courtiers,  bending  down, 
Prompt  and  glad  allegiance  own. 

44 


"Subjects,  haste  to   do  my  will! 
Spread  each  board  with  festive  cheer, 
And  when  wassail-cups  ye  fill 
Pledge  your  king  the  blithe  New  Yean 

Pause,  young  monarch,  in  thy  pride! 
For  a  Mightier  One  than  thou, 
Ruler  o'er  earth's   regions  wide, 
Bids  thee  bend  in  homage  now. 

For  His  vassal,  lo!  thou  art. 
Petty  princeling,  proud  and  gay; 
Take   thou,  then,  thy  vassal-part — 
Loyal    tribute    haste    to    pay. 

Though  within  a  stable  born, 

Poor  with  lowliest  poverty, 

Theme  of  worldling's  sneer  and  scorn, 

Deathless  King  of  kings  is  He! 

If  thou  sendest,  in  His  Name, 
Northward,  southward,  east,  and  west, 
Sacred  heralds  to  proclaim 
Fallen  man's  redemption  blest, 

And  if  thou  sheddest  o'er  each  land 
Gifts  whose  flowing  ne'er  shall  cease, 
Brought  by  kind,  benignant  hand 
Of  that  bounteous  Prince  of  Peace, 


Then,  with  fond  and  eager  will, 
Earth  shall  spread  thy  festive  cheer, 
And  thy  wassail-tankard  fill, — 
Love-sent  Ruler!  Glad  New  Year! 

45 


THE  CHRIST-CHILD'S  DUMB  ADORERS* 

,UR  fathers  told,  in  days  of  old, 
_    This  sweetest  tale  tradition  weaves: 
How  brutes,  kept  safe  in  sheltered  fold, 
On  chilly  Christmas  Eves, 


o 


Or  crouched  'neath  wall  of  straw-built  stall, 
Or  roaming  wild  o'er  ice-bound  earth, 
As  midnight  nears,  are  waiting  all 
The  dear  Redeemer's  birth. 

Hush,  human  hum!  the  hour  is  come! 
Each  beast  doth  bow  the  reverent  knee 
To  Him  who  loves  his  creatures  dumb, 
Whose  Maker  blest  is  He! 

And  where  He  lies  in  meek  disguise, 
In  Babyhood's  frail  semblance  clad, 
Each  turns  its  soft,  adoring  eyes, 
With  silent  rapture  glad. 

Oh,  thus  was  told  in  days  of  old 
This  sweetest  tale  tradition  weaves, 
While  yule-log's  blaze  drove  hence  the  cold 
And  lighted  Christmas  eves. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  CLOAK. 

BLEST  Tradition  shrines  no  fairer  story 
Than  is  this,  of  dear  Saint  Martin  told, 
Who  in  youth  the  meed  of  earthly  glory 
Sought  and  won,  as  warrior-chieftain  bold. 

*  An  old  tradition  tells  that  ever,  on  Christmas  Eve,  at  the 
hour  of  the  Man-God's  birth,  all  beasts  kneel  in  adoration. 

46 


But  while  flowers  of  tender  loving-kindness  sj"fnt..  , 
For  the  needy  blossomed  in  his  heart, 
Still  his  soul  through  night  of  Pagan  blind 
ness 
Groped — nor  bade  the  dismal  shadows  part, 

Till,  one  wintry  day,  as  forth  he  wended 
Blithe  of  mien,  to  join  the  battle's  fray, 
Lo!  a  beggar,  with  pale  hands  extended, 
Feebly  crouched  beside  the  soldier's  way. 

Generous  Martin  with  his  store  had  parted, 
Alms  bestowing  e'en  since  early  morn, 
Yet  the  brave  young  chieftain,  tender-hearted, 
Longed  to  aid  this  shiv'ring  wretch  forlorn. 

So  he  tore  the  mantle  from  his  shoulder, 
Cleft    its    folds    with    broadsword    keen    and 

bright, 

And  (for  icy  blasts  blew  ever  colder) 
Half  his  cloak  he  gave  the  beggar-wight. 

When  the  hard-fought  battle's  fray  was  ended, 
As  brave  Martin,  crowned  with  victory, 
Gladly  forth  on  homeward  journey  wended, 
Trolling  folk-songs,  in  triumphant  glee,— 

Where  he  met  the  beggar,  casting  o'er  him 
Half  his  knightly  cloak  of  brightest  blue, 
Lo!  a  thorn-crowned  figure  stood  before  him, 
And  his  risen  mantle's  azure  hue 

In  the  morning's  beam  was  brightly  glowing, 
For  a  nail-rent  Hand  the  garment  bore, 
And  its  folds,  united,  soon  were  flowing 
Round  the  soldier's  stalwart  form  once  more, 

47 


Saint        While  a  Voice  than  music  sweeter,  clearer 

Spake:    "Thy   love   that    served   the   beggar's 

need 

Unto  Me,  O  knight,  hath  made  thee  dearer 
Than  thy  valor's  proudest,  brightest  deed. 

"  Take  again  the  warrior's  cloak  thou  gavest. 
I  was  hid  in  seeming  pauper's  frame, 
And  thine  earthly  meed,  O  noblest,  bravest! 
Changed  shall  be  to  Heaven's  immortal  fame. 

"  Seek  with  humble  heart  the  Christian's  altar, 
There  be  cleansed  in  bright  baptismal  wave. 
Then,  as  holy  priest,  thou  shalt  not  falter 
In  thy  task  the  needy  soul  to  save." 

Conquered  Martin  knelt  before  his  Master, 
And  full  soon  that  sweet  command  obeyed. 
Lo!  his  life,  as  Tours'  devoted  pastor, 
Won  him  fame  that  ne'er  shall  fail  or  fade. 

And  'tis  said  when  Godfrey,  angel-guided, 
Banner  chose  o'er  Zion's  wall  to  fling, 
Martin's  mantle,  by  his  love  divided, 
Was  the  flag  of  Salem's  Christian  king. 

Holy  Bishop!  may  thy  potent  pleading 
From  thy  King,  in  fadeless  Realm  on  high 
Win  for  us  thy  prompt  and  generous  heeding 
Of  each  needy  neighbor's  woeful  cry. 

THE  VISION  OF  CHARITY:  A  LEGEND. 

FROM    desert   heat,   with   venom   fraught, 
A  weary  pilgrim,  wan  and  faint, 
With  slowly  toiling  footsteps  sought 
The  grotto  of  a  hermit  saint. 

48 


And  in  that  cool,  secluded  cave  T^ 

The  wanderer  found  his  needed  rest.  of 

For  there  the  Lord's  true  servant  gave 

Glad  welcome  to  each  pilgrim  guest. 

"For  me,"  he  cried,  "not  thee,  the  boon, 

Love's   kindly   task   is   pleasure   sweet" — 

Then  stooped  to  loose  the  sandal-shoon 

And  lave  the  travel-wearied  feet. 

What  vision  meets  his  startled  sight? 

The  heavy  sandals  fall,  and  lo! 

On  each  bared  Foot  the  blood-drops  bright 

From  cruel  wounds,  like  rubies  glow! 

With  trembling  glance  of  love  and  awe, 

E'en  higher  still  the  hermit  gazed, 

And  ah!  two  nail-rent  Hands  he  saw 

In  benediction  o'er  him  raised. 

Then,  while  his  inmost  spirit   shook, 

Up  to  the  thorn-encircled  Brow 

He  lifted  one  swift,  dazzled  look. 

And  murmured:  "Master!  is  it  Thou?" 

"Aye!"  spake  the  Saviour's  Voice  Divine — 

"The  poor  their  imaged  Lord  shall  be, 

And  whoso  serves  the  least  of  Mine, 

Behold!  he  also  serveth  Me!" 


O 


THE  CROWNLESS  KING.* 

|UR  long  and  weary  toil  is  done, 

Our  precious  prize  securely  won. 
The  Crescent's  gleam  of  falsest  dross 
Is  quenched  by  Truth's  triumphant  Cross, 
And  Zion's  rescued  wralls  shall  ring 
With  welcomes  for  her  Christian  king! 
O  valiant  Chief!  that  name  is  thine 
By  lawful  claim,  and  right  divine. 
Hail,  royal  Godfrey!  hail  to  thee! 
True  guide  to  glorious  victory. 
*  Godfrey  of  Boulogne,  Crusader-King  of  Jerusalem. 

49 


The  Crown-   Before  yon  shrine  our  valor  bold 
less  King.       Hath  wreste(i  from  the  Paynim's  hold 
Anointed  hands  shall  bid  thee  wear 
The  jeweled  crown  of  Zion  fair." 

"Nay!  nay!"  the  well-loved  Godfrey  said, 
And  humbly  bowed  his  noble  head; 
"Your  king,  brave  comrades,  I  will  be, 
With  blessings  for  your  loyalty. 
But  ask  me  not  a  crown  to  wear 
Within  that  faithless  city  where 
A  cruel  wreath  of  thorns  they  gave 
His  Brow  Divine,  who  came  to  save. 

Submissive   bowed   his   warrior-train, 
And  so  throughout  his  gracious  reign, 
E'en  till  its  latest  day  was  o'er, 
No  crown  that  best  of  monarchs  wore, 
As  vassal-steward,  governing 
The  city  of  his  thorn-wreathed  King. 
But  the  rich  crown  of  jewels  rare 
His  warriors  fain  would  bid  him  wear 
He  sent  unto  his  mother's  hand 
Within  his  distant  native  land, 
And  bade  her  with  its  gems  endow 
Her  venerated  statue's  brow, 
Whose  sweet,  protecting  glances  shone 
Above  the  port  of  bright  Boulogne, 
The  grateful  seamen's  homeward  guide 
From  stormy  ocean,  wild  and  wide. 

With  joy  the  saintly  mother  blest 
Obeyed  her  noble  son's  request. 
And  fittingly,  while  ages  sped, 
The  crown  of  Salem  wreathed  Her  head 
Who  sweetly  deigneth  e'er  to  be 
Our  gracious  "  Lady  of  the  Sea! 
50 


THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT 
LISTETH." 

T  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
The  wind  so  strong  and  free, 
No  man  its  might  resisteth, 
For  no  man's  slave  't  will  be. 


I 


The  restless  sea  obeyeth 
The  mandate  of  its  breath. 
And  while  the  good  ship  swayeth 
And  sinketh  to  her  death, 
The  billows  twine  above  her 
The  foam-wreaths  of  the  storm, 
And  'neath  their  mountains  cover 
Her  rent  and  ruined  form. 

The  blast  blows  where  it  listeth 
Across  the  land  so  fair, 
And  no  man's  strength  resisteth 
Its  frantic  fury  there. 
Oh,  when  it  sweeps  the  forest, 
Stout  oak  within  its  path, 
All,  all  in  vain  thou  warrest 
Against  its  mighty  wrath! 
To  earth  thy  form  descendeth 
Fell'd  by  its  blows,  that  smite 
Till  from  thy  brow  it  rendeth 
The  leafy  garlands  bright. 

And  so,  where'er  it  listeth 
The  tempest  roameth  free, 
And  no  man  e'er  resisteth 
Its  rage  on  land  or  sea. 
But  fiercer,  wilder,  faster 
It  wreaks  its  mighty  will, 

51 


1 The  Wind   Till  Nature's  God  and  Master 
BWherehit     Commandeth :  "  Peace !   be  still !  " 
Listeth."     Ah!    then,  to  whispers  dying, 
It  calms  its  angry  breath, 
And  mourns  with  softest  sighing 
Its  work  of  woe  and  death. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  FRAU  BERTHA* 

"T7RAU  Bertha!  Frau  Bertha!  thou  lady  so 
r        bright 

Afar  in  the  Paradise  land, 
Oh,  come  in  thy  mantle  of  silvery  white, 
And  bring  in  thy  beautiful  hand 
The  loaf  that  is  sweet,  of  the  heavenly  wheat. 
And  the  robes  that  are  soft  and  warm, 
That  I  of  thy  bountiful  bread  may  eat, 
May  cover  my  perishing  form 
With  the  radiant  garments  so  thick  and  soft, 
For  I'm  dying  of  hunger  and  cold. 
Frau   Bertha!   then  come  to  my  lone   garret 

loft, 

And  round  me  thy  arms  enfold. 
My    mother's    asleep    in    the    churchyard    so 

gray, 

And  deaf  to  my  wailing  is  she. 
And  my  father  drinks  deep  all  the  night  and 

the  day, 
And  nobody  careth  for  me." 

*One  of  the  most  charming  of  the  charming  German 
legends  is  that  of  Frau  Bertha,  or  the  White  Lady.  This 
mythical  personage  is  always  robed  in  white,  and  comes  in 
response  to  the  cries  of  neglected  children,  rich  or  poor,  to 
soothe  their  griefs  and  minister  tenderly  to  their  wants. 

52 


Frau  Bertha  she  listened,  that  lady  so  bright    Ballad 
Afar  in  the  Paradise  land,  °Lrtha. 

And  she  came  in  her  mantle  of  silvery  white, 
And  brought  in  her  beautiful  hand 
The  bread  that  was  sweet  and  the  robes  that 

were  soft, 

And  she  gave  of  her  bountiful  store 
To  the  destitute  child  in  the  lone  garret  loft, 
And  he  hungered  and  thirsted  no  more. 


"Frau    Bertha!    Frau    Bertha!    thou    lady    so 

bright 

Afar  in  the  Paradise  land, 
Oh,  come  in  thy  mantle  of  silvery  white 
And  soothe  with  thy  motherly  hand 
That  fever  that  burneth  my  brow  and  my  lip 
And  rendeth  my  limbs  with  its  pain; 
Oh,  give  me  cool  draughts  of  the  water  to  sip 
That  I  crave  and  I  call  for  in  vain; 
For  my  mother  hath  gone  to  the  King's  palace 

fair, 

And  cold  and  unloving  is  she, 
And  my  nurse  is  asleep  in  her  soft  easy-chair, 
And  nobody  careth  for  me!" 


Frau  Bertha  she  listened,  that  lady  so  bright 

Afar  in  the  Paradise  land, 

And  she  came  in  her  mantle  of  silvery  white 

And  soothed  with  her  motherly  hand 

The  fever  that  burned  on  the  child's  brow  and 

lip 

And  rent  his  young  limbs  with  its  pain; 
And    she    gave    him    sweet    draughts   of   cool 

water  to  sip, 
And  he  thirsted  no  longer  in  vain. 

53 


Ballad     gut  a  cold  mother's  heart  on  the  morrow  was 


u 

With  remorse  that  could  never  restore 
Life's   throb   to   the   heart   that   forever   was 

stilled, 
That  was  grieved  and  neglected  no  more. 


O 


THE  SINNER'S  BELL. 

H,  the  olden  City  of  Breslau  is 

A  busy  town,  I  ween; 
From  dawn  till  dark,  the  toilers  there 
On  every  side  are  seen. 
Only  at  night  they  stretch  their  limbs 
In  idleness  serene. 

But  once  of  late  the  citizens 
Found  time  to  keep  full  well 
The  glad  five  hundredth  birthday  of 
Their  stately  Stadt-Haus  bell. 
Concerning  this,  Tradition  hath 
A  tale  I  fain  would  tell: 

Aye!  five  long  centuries  have  passed 

Since  burgomasters  great 

(Led  by  their  Mayor  worshipful) 

In  solemn  pomp  and  state, 

Held  (as  they  still  are  wont  to  do) 

A  long  and  loud  debate. 

The  fierce  discussion's  weighty  theme 

Was  this:  Their  city's  pride, 

The  massive  Stadt-Haus,  newly  reared 

The  spacious  square  beside, 

Must  have  a  bell,  with  deep-toned  voice, 

To  echo  far  and  wide. 

54 


And  this  sonorous  monitor 

Must  fashion'd  be  full  well. 

Aye!  aye!  no  common  hand  should  cast 

Fair  Breslau's  mighty  bell, — 

No  clumsy  cracks  with  discords  mar 

Its  tongue's  melodious  swell. 


Each  wordy  battle,  loud  and  long, 

Each  wearisome  debate 

To  calm  conclusion  came  at  last, 

And  burgomasters  great 

(Led  by  their  Mayor  worshipful) 

Marched  forth  in  solemn  state 


To  shop  of  famous  artisan 

Whose  skill  was   widely  sung, 

Whose  bells,  in  great  cathedral  towers, 

O'er  all  the  land  were  hung. 

One  e'en  beneath  the  Haupt-Stadt's  dome 

In  sounding  echoes  rung. 

They  plied  him  well  with  questions  shrewd, 

They  haggled  o'er  the  price, 

And  scanned  so  long  each  pattern  rare 

And  quaintly  carved  device, 

That  thus  he  jeered:  "Ye  crave,  methinks, 

A  bell  for  Paradise!" 

They  made  at  length  a  fitting  choice 

Of  fair  and  graceful  plan; 

They  gave  their  pompous  orders  to 

That  famous  artisan, 

And  he,  on  one  bright  summer  morn, 

His  mighty  work  began. 

55 


But  when  the  molten  metal,  bright 

As  stream  of  liquid  gold, 

Was  ready  for  its  prison-home 

Within  the  shaping  mold, 

The   'prentice-lad,   in   breathless   haste, 

Came,  and  of  business  told 

That  craved  the  master's  instant  heed, 
That  brooked  not  e'en  delay. 
The  founder  said:  "I  go!  but  thou, 
To  guard  my  work,  must  stay. 
But  on  yon  vessel  for  thy  life 
Not  e'en  a  finger  lay." 

In  spellbound  awe  the  'prentice-lad 
Long  on  the  bright  stream  gazed, 
Then,  moved  by  sudden  impulse,  he 
The   brimming  vessel  raised, 
Into  the  mold  the  metal  poured, 
And  then,  by  terror  dazed, 

The  dreaded  master  quickly  called, 

And  with  wild  sobs  confessed 

His  boyish  fault,  but  at  the  tale 

Within  that  master's  breast 

Fierce  anger  surged  and  demons  dark 

His  frenzied  soul  possessed. 

Deeming  his  proud  work  ruined,  he 

With  swift  and  savage  blow 

Struck  to  the  earth  the  trembling  child- 

And  then — oh,  joy!  oh,  woe!— • 

All  cooled  to  shape  symmetrical 

He  saw  that  metal's  glow. 

56 


It  was  the  founder's  masterpiece, —  The 

With  purest  gleam  it  shone.  SBl 

No  blemish  marred  its  graceful  form, 
No  discord  jarred  its  tone — 
But  now,  with  tears  of  agony 
And  wild,  remorseful  moan. 


On  the  dead  boy  his  murderer 

Long,  long  in  anguish  gazed; 

Then  fondly  from  the  blood-stained  floor 

The  death-cold  body  raised 

And  bore  it  where  the  magistrate 

Sat,  girt  by  throng  amazed. 

In  gasping  words  he  told  his  tale, 

And  to  his  sad  abode 

He  swiftly  led  the  wondering  crowd, 

And  with  wild  gestures  showed 

The  blood-marked  floor,  the  bell  that  now 

In  fair  completion  glowed. 


They  doomed  him  to  the  felon's  death. 

And  to  its  woeful  place 

(While  sadly  tolled  his  fatal  bell) 

He  walked  with  feeble  pace, 

And  faintly  cried:    "  Dear  Christians,  pray 

For  this  poor  sinner's  grace !" 

And  now,  in  noisy  Breslau,  where 

They  kept  its  birthday  well, 

This  legend  of  its  casting  strange 

The  busy  burghers  tell, 

And  to  this  day  their  city's  pride 

They  call  "The  Sinner's  Bell." 

57 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE  OF  JERICHO. 

WHERE    passed    meek    footsteps    of    the 
Child  Divine, 
By  glad  obedience  sent, 

Where  the  blest  Mother,  gentle,  pure,  benign, 
On  kindly  errands  went. 

Where  Joseph   walked,    (his   look  the   truth 
ful  sign 

Of  Duty's  just  intent,) 
A  smiling  blossom,  dewy-eyed  and  sweet, 
Sprang  up  as  on  they  trod; 
It  poured  blest  incense  o'er  their  sacred  feet, 
And  on  the  favored  sod, 

Gifting  with  store  of  ceaseless  homage  meet, 
Love's  guardians  and  their  God. 


And  e'en  till 'now,  in  far-off  Eastern  land, 

Where'er  that  blossom  grows, 

Each  townsman   grave,   each   chief  of  desert 

band 

The  mystic  flow'ret  knows. 
Naming  it  still  (while  pointing  reverent  hand) 
"The   Holy  Family's   Rose." 


GLORIFIED  DUST. 

SAW  a  hand  of  darkness  dim 
The  summer's  noon  of  glory. 
It  checked  the  fountain's  gleeful  hymn, 
The  brooklet's  babbling  story, 

And  over  all  in  letters  grim 
•  » 


I 


It  wrote,  "Memento  Mori.' 
58 


Dun  meadows  from  the  shrouded  light 

No  dewy  sheen  could  borrow; 

The  leaves  lay  hid  in  dusky  night, 

Nor  hoped  a  verdant  morrow. 

For  human  guilt  the  blossom  bright 

Wore  penance-veils  of  sorrow. 

O'er  crowded  street  and  country  lane, 
On  breezes  swiftly  sweeping, 
Still  came  the  dusky-pinioned  train, 
In  pillared  clouds  upleaping. 
From  busy  mart,  from  silent  plain, 
Their  ashy  harvest  reaping. 

No  spot  too  sacred,  no  retreat 

Too  sheltered  for  intrusion. 

The  shrine  was  soiled,  the  cottage  neat 

Was  rilled  with  strange  confusion. 

I  dreamed  of  arbors  fresh  and  sweet, — 

Alas,  the  vain  delusion! 

"O  foul,  unsightly  dust!"  I  cried, 
O  bane  of  leaf  and  flower! 
Your  atoms  mock  our  human  pride 
And  scorn  our  boasted  power, 
And  all  that  Art  hath  glorified 
Becomes  your  certain  dower. 

"O  spoiler  of  the  summer's  bloom, 
The  springtide's  brightness  tender, 
Can  nought  dispel  thy  dusky  gloom, 
And  give  thee  golden  splendor i 
Can  aught  thy  penance-robe  illume, 
Thy  atoms  lovely  render?" 

59 


Gloried   E'en  as  !  spokej  in  slanting  Hne 
A  golden  beam  descended, 
And  o'er  the  casement's  clinging  vine 
Its  way  of  brightness  wended, 
And  in  its  radiance  divine 
Each  leaf  shone  clear  and  splendi'd. 

And  on  that  gleaming  stairway  rose 

A  dusty  column  slowly; 

And  till   the   evening's   tranquil   close 

In  golden  brightness  holy 

Still  floated  there,  in  calm  repose, 

Those  motes  so  brown  and  lowly. 

Entranced,  I  saw  that  line  of  light, 
And  hastened  then  to  render 
Meet  thanks  unto  my  teachers  bright 
(Those  dust-grains  robed  in  splendor) 
For  giving  to  my  blinded  sight 
Such  lesson  sweet  and  tender. 

For  (thus  I  mused)  each  selfish  thought 

Each  earthward  aim  unsightly, 

Each  deed  with  worldly  dust  o'erfraught, 

From  earth  upspringing  lightly, 

May  show  such  transformation  wrought 

By  grace,  descending  lightly. 

Ah,  blessed  beams  of  Light  Divine! 

Illume  my  latest  even; 

Upon  m3>-  soul  in  splendor  shine 

And  bid  its  earthy  leaven 

Float  upward  in  a  golden  line, 

A  glorious  path  to  Heaven! 

60 


THE  CHARITY  OF  THE  POOR. 

HPHE  lavish  lilies  from  full  censers  fling 
_L     Their  fragrance  far  and  wide; 
And  odors  rich,  upborne  on  zephyr's  wing, 
From  generous  rose-hearts  glide; 

But  softly  stealing  through  the  dim  retreat, 
Where  lowlier  gems  are  set, 
More  precious  far  the  pure  aroma  sweet 
Of  meek-eyed  violet. 

Leaf-robed  and  crowned,  o'er  many  a  mossy 

dell 

The  forest  grandly  towers; 
And    countless   throngs   may   freely,   blithely 

dwell 
Within  its  spacious  bowers. 

Yet  he  who  toileth  o'er  a  desert  land 

More  blissful  finds  repose 

'Neath   the  lone  tree  that  o'er  the  near  hot 

sand 
Refreshing  shadow  throws. 

So,    rich    men's    bounty,    generous,    full,    and 

free, 

Fair  boons  may  widely  fling, 
And    sweet    as    breath    of    queenliest    blooms 

may  be 
The  benisons  they  bring. 

Yet    these,    like    fragrance    on    the    air    out 
poured 

From  lily's  stateliness, 
Or  richest  odor  in  the  rose-heart  stored, 
May  e'en  with  balm  oppress. 
61 


But  dear  and  Precious  to  the  poor  man's  heart 

The  sigh  of  sympathy 

(From  one  whose  life  in  woes  like  his  hath 

part) 
As  violet's  breath  will  be. 


The  rich  man's  hand  with  fair  and  spacious 

home 

His  houseless  neighbor  dowers, 
But,  like  the  wide-spread  forest,  oft  its  dome 
Too  far,  too  grandly  towers. 

The  offered  shelter  in  his  brother's  hut 

More  fondly  will  he  share — 

Too  cramped  the  space,  too  low  the  ceiling, 

but 
The  warmth  of  love  is  there. 


Who  feeleth  not  their  suff'rings  cannot  know 
What  those  tried  hearts  endure, 
And  so  the  truest  charity  below 
Is  practiced  by  the  poor. 

The   rich  man   gives   from   cup   that   runneth 

o'er, 

And  still  its  brim  is  crowned; 
He  taketh  freely  from  his  harvest  store, 
And  still  his  fields  abound. 


The  poor  man  giveth  of  his  scanty  hoard, 
That  scarce  his  wants  supplies; 
He  feeds  the  beggar  from  his  meagre  board, 
And  thus  himself  denies. 

62 


Yet  once — as  blest  Evangel-page  hath  told —   Charity  of 
The  widow's  humble  mite  the  Poor. 

Far  more  than  gift  of  costly  gems  and  gold 
Found  favor  in  Love's  sight. 

His  words  divine  her  tender  act  record, 
And,  while  those  words  endure, 
With  bliss  like  hers  shall   Endless   Love  re 
ward 
The  bounty  of  the  poor. 


A  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  MARTIN. 

r  I  ^HE  saintly  Bishop's  Mass  is  o'er, 
JL   And  now  his  thronging  people  pour 
From   out   the   wide   cathedral   door. 

But  as  they  gain  the  narrow  street, — 
Slow-moving  still,   in  reverence  meet, — 
A  sudden  terror  stays  their  feet. 

Oh,  why,  bold  burghers,  thus  dismayed? 
What  makes  thy  heart,  brave  knight,  afraid? 
A  leprous   hand  outstretched  for  aid! 

It  wakes  the  jester's  frightened  howl, 
And  bids  his  lord,  with  angry  scowl, 
Shrink  from  the  loathsome  presence  foul. 

It  prompts  at   last  the  cruel   cry: 
"Hence,  daring  leper!  turn  and  fly 
Back  to  thy  dreary  den  to  die!"' 

"  Nay,  cease  !  "  a  ringing  voice  commands. 
And  in  their  midst,  with  lifted  hands 
And  visage  stern,  Saint  Martin  stands, 

63 


Legend  of     While  trembling  fingers  point  in  scorn 
St.  Martin.    WherCj  jn  the  dust,  he  lies  forlorn 

Whose  breath  pollutes  the  sacred  morn. 

But  wondrous  scene  is  acted  now; 
For  lol    the  prelate-saint  doth  bow 
O'er  that  vile  wretch  "his  holy  brow. 

He  gently  lifts  the  ghastly  face, 
Nor  fears  around  his  neck  to  place 
The  rotting  arms  in  fond  embrace. 

Behold!    the  leprous  one  hath  fled, 

And  swiftly  riseth  in  his  stead 

A  shining  Form,  with  thorn-crowned   Head! 

And  Martin,  on  his  Master's  breast— 
Another  loved  Disciple  blest — 
Securely  leans,  in  trustful  rest. 

And  each  who  bends  the  contrite  knee 
Thus  hears:     "Who  serves  my  least  shall  see 
That  e'en  the  leper  hideth  Me!" 


o 


THE   MISSION   OF  THE   MIGNONETTE. 

NE  who  served  God,  and  loved  his  race 

so  well 

That  e'en  the  vilest  he  could  ne'er  forget, 
Once  kindly  brought  unto  a  dungeon-cell 
A  pot  of  mignonette. 

Sick    unto     death,    and    wrapped     in     sullen 

gloom, 
Unsoothed,    uncheered    by    e'en    one    hopeful 

ray, 

64 


The  wretched  tenant  of  that  dreary  room        Mission 
Prone  on   his   pallet  lay.  of  the 

Mignonette. 

But  when  he  felt  the  balmy  sweetness  rise 
Like  angel's  breath  throughout  the  fetid  air 
He   wildly  gazed   with   strained  and   startled 

eyes, 
Crying:    "Lost  Eden  fair! 

"  Dear,    blooming    garden    of    my    boyhood's 
home! 

)^uheue  floral  gems  in  dewy  shrines  were  set, 
Un,  hast  thou  wafted  o'er  the  tossing  foam 
The  scent  of  mignonette?" 

Then  on  the  tiny  plant  his  glances  fell, 
And  softest  tears,  the  healing  dews  of  grace 
Burst  from  his   heart's   long-seared  and   sin- 
dried  well 
And  streamed  adown  his  face. 

He   touched   the   leaves   with   soft,   caressing 

hand,— 
"Oh,  be  his  life  with  richest  blessings 

fraught, 
Who  unto  me,  lost  wretch,  from  freedom 

banned, 
This  sign  of  hope  hath  brought!" 

T  was   e'en  as  though   within   the  breath   of 

balm 

And  smiling  petals  of  that  simple  flower 
Strange   influence    dwelt— for   sweet,   celestial 

calm 
Stole  o'er  him  from  that  hour. 

65 


Mission          Held  was  the  plant  in  close  and  loving  clasp 
Mignonette.    When    the    All-Father    freed    His    pardoned 

son; 
Then    fell     it,     broken,     from     his     loosened 

grasp,— 
Its  Heavenly  mission  done ! 


K 


KING    STEPHEN'S    PROTEGE. 

ING  STEPHEN  through  his  palace  fair 
Like  prison'd  lion  strode; 
For  goading  fiends  of  anxious  care 
Within   his   heart   abode. 
Good  cause  that  bold  usurper  had, — 
Aye,  grievous  cause,  I  ween, — 
For  restless  step,  and  musings  sad, 
And  sternly  troubled  mien. 
The  legions  of  the  Empress  Maude 
Swept  England's  northern  coast, 
And  by  their  swarming  numbers  awed 
His   smaller,  feebler  host — 
Yet  through  the  clouds  of  anxious  thought 
That  darkly  wrapped  his  soul 
One  smiling  ray,  serenely  fraught 
With  Hope's  sweet  sunlight,  stole. 
"  My  brave  John  Marshal — heart  of  oak, 
And  arm  as  iron  strong — 
Is  there,  and  his  resistless  stroke 
Shall  slay  their  pride  ere  long." 

A  herald  came, — and  that  fair  hope 
Was  crushed  with   sudden  blow: 
"  My  liege,  we  can  no  longer  cope 
With  our  relentless  foe, 
For  John  the  Marshal — curses  be 
Heaped  on  his  traitor  heart! — 
Hath  taken  with  the  enemy 
A  leader's  treacherous  part!" 

66 


More  furious  waxed  the  stormy  wrath 

That  in  the  king's  heart  raged, 

And  fiercer  on  his  restless  path 

He  sped  like  lion  caged. 

He  paused  at  last, — his  sudden  shout, 

Made  sharp  with  anguish,  rang 

In  echoes  fierce:     "Ho!  there,  without! 

And  through  the  doorway  sprang 

The  mail-clad  yeomen  of  the  guard 

In  battle's  grim  array, 

With  swords  in  rest  and  helmets  barred, 

As  for  the  savage  fray. 

"Hath  John  the  Marshal  kindred  here?" 

The  monarch   fiercely  cried. 

"He  hath,  my  liege!"  in  accents  clear 

The  leader's  voice  replied. 

"  He  hath  one  son — a  winsome  boy, 

True  copy  of  his  sire." 

King  Stephen's  face  with  vengeful  joy 

Flamed  like  a  lurid  fire, 

And  loudly  rang  his  laughter  wild, — 

"Ha!    ha!     Ye  give  me  mirth! 

Bring  hither  now  this  winsome  child, 

This  pearl  of  priceless  worth. 

"This  copy  of  a  traitor  vile! — 

I   marvel   not  ye   start, — 

How  could  ye  guess  such  demon  guile 

Lurked  in  John  Marshal's  heart? 

Yet  all  too  true  this  news  accursed 

That  whelms  me  like  a  flood. 

And  since  I  may  not  sate  my  thirst 

With  that  foul  caitiff's  blood, 

I  '11  spill  his  son's,  for,  sooth,  't  is  meet 

To  slay  such  traitor  spawn. 

Then  haste  to  bring  me  vengeance  sweet, 

67 


King     ^     And  work  him   woe — begone! 

Yet,  stay!    it  is  the  headsman's  right 

Such  noble  blood  to  shed; 

So  speed  him  hither — in  my  sight 

Must  fall  that  winsome  head! 

And  I  the  cleft  bloom  shall  uplift — 

For  't  is  my  fond  desire 

To  send  it,  as  my  gracious  gift, 

Unto  his  worthy  sire." 

Forth  went  King  Stephen's  yeoman  rough, 

With  downcast  heart  and  sad, 

For  well  the  soldier  brave  and  bluff 

Had  loved  the  fated  lad. 

Meanwhile  the  king,  with  savage  glee, 

Dreamed  of  the  father's  woe 

When  he  that  ghastly  head  should  see 

And  well-earned  anguish  know. 

But  soon  this  childish  murmur  came 

To  break  his  musings  grim: 

"Ah  me!    the  king  hath  spoiled  my  game. 

Why  must  I  go  to  him? 

Nor  do  I  love  thee,  yeoman,  now, — 

Thou  dost  not  smile  to-day, — 

And  there's  a  deep  frown  on  thy  brow 

I  fain  would  drive  away. 

Then,  ere  we  go  into  yon  room 

I  prithee  sing  with  me! 

To  chase  afar  thine  ugly  gloom 

The  song  I  taught  to  thee." 

[Sings.] 

"A  little  lad  went  out  to  shoot,  and  he 
Was  armed  with  a  new  bow  and  arrow, 
And  he  happened  to  see  in  an  old  oak-tree 
A   pretty   and   pert    cock-sparrow. 
And    he    laughed,    'Ha!    ha!,'    and    he    cried 

'Ho!  ho! 
Oh,  saucy  and  sly  cock-sparrow, 

68 


I  '11  lay  thee  low,  when  I  shoot  thee,  so!         Kingt 
With  my  fine  new  bow  and  arrow.' 

Chorus:     (I  '11   lay,   etc.) 

"  Then  he  stood  quite  still  on  the  grass,  to  try 
The  strength  of  his  new  bow  and  arrow; 
But  he  aimed  too  high — far  away  in  the  sky 
Flew  the  pretty  and  pert  cock-sparrow, 
With  a  gay  'Ha!  ha!'  and  a  glad  'Ho!  ho!' 
Said  the  pretty  and  pert  cock-sparrow, 
'  I  'm  not  laid  low,  though  you  shot  me,  so! 
With  your  fine  new  bow  and  arrow.'  " 

"The  chorus  sing.  Sir  Yeoman!    O! 

It  is  a   brave  refrain. 

But,  pshaw!    thy  voice  is  weak  and  low. 

I  pray  thee  sing  again!  " 

"  Nay!    nay!    sweet  lad!    I  must  not  sing. 

And  if  we  longer  stay 

We  '11  win  the  anger  of  the  king, 

For  he  is  vexed  to-day." 

"  Good  yeoman,  I  'd  not  cause  thee  blame — 

Although  I  do  not  fear. 

For  I  '11  make  the  stern  king  join  my  game! 

Nay;  list!    you'll  laugh  to  hear!" 

They  entered  then  the  portal  wide — 

With  gaze  fixed  on  the  floor 

The  soldier  walked,  but  by  his  side 

The  child  of  summers  four, 

With  lifted  brow  and  fearless  eyes, 

Tripped  on,  and  as  he  went 

A  smiling  glance  of  sweet  surprise 

On  Stephen's  form  he  bent. 

In  sooth,  he  was  a  winsome  lad — 

So  frank  and  brave  his  mien, 

His  merry  smile  so  bright  and  glad, 

His  bright  brow  so  serene. 

69 


King          Fresh  plantain-leaves  in  each  small  hand 
P?8£**    He  hel<?  with  childish  grace, 

And  raised  his  look  of  gay  command 

Up  to  the  stern  king's  face. 

"Sir  King!    I  fear  thee  not,  e'en  though 

They  say  thou  art  so  great 

That  I  must  tremble,  bending  low 

Before  thy  royal  state. 

But  only  cowards  tremble!    I 

Will  be  a  soldier  brave, 

To  fight  for  thee,  and  gladly  die 

My  honored  king  to  save. 

But  thou  hast  spoiled  my  sport  to-day! 

And  so,  to  punish  thee, 

My  game  of  plantains  thou  must  play, 

O  mighty  king,  with  me! 

These  will  I  keep!    then  take  thou  those! 

And  he  whose  skill  shall  smite 

The  heads  off  all  his  plaintain  foes 

Shall  gain  the  merry  fight. 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice!    the  war  begins! 

To  watch  it,  yeomen,  come! 

That  ye  may  cheer  for  him  who  wins, 

And  beat  your  loudest  drum." 

Amused,  attracted,   e'en  despite 
His  vengeful  hate  and  ire, 
The  king  began  the  mimic  fight, 
To  please  the  child's  desire, 
And  as  the  merry  strife  went  on, 
He  laughed  with  hearty  joy — 
And  when  't  was  o'er,  his  wrath  was  gone, 
Quelled  by  the  winsome  boy! 
He  loved  him  soon,  with  ardor  true 
He  shared  each  childish  sport, 
And  more  and  more  the  fair  lad  grew 
70 


The  pride  of  king  and  court. 

A  noble  knight  the  boy  became, 

Of  brave,  pure,  valiant  heart, — 

In  statesman's  toil,  in  war's  dread  game 

He  played  a  glorious  part. 

To  brave  Earl  Marshal  tribute  due 

Tradition  payeth  still, 

And  boasteth  of  his  courage  true, 

His  wise  and  potent  skill. 

All  strife  was  quelled,  all  hearts  were  won, 

So  sings  the  minstrel  lay, — 

By  John  the  traitor's  loyal  son — 

King  Stephen's  protege. 


THE  REWARD  OF  THE  PALM. 

AS  upon  their  mystic  journey 
Bravely  toiled  the  Blessed  Three, 
Longing  in  the  safer  shelter 
Of  the  stranger's  land  to  be, 
Droops  at  last  the  Virgin  Mother, 
Worn  and  faint  with  hunger  sore, 
And  with  fervid  beams  that  ever 
O'er  the  sands  their  fierceness  pour. 
On  her  turn  the  pitying  glances 
Of  the  Infant  born  to  save, 
And  Els  arms  with  potent  gestures 
O'er  the  barren  desert  wave. 
Lo!    upon  the  pilgrims  falleth 
Pleasant   shadow,   sweet   and   calm, 
Where  within  the  path  before  them 
Lightly  springs  the  graceful  palm. 
And  it  bends  its  laden  branches 
Gently  at  its  Lord's  command, 
Till  the  fruit,  in  rich  abundance, 
Droopeth  unto  Mary's  hand. 

71 


Reward  of  Then   Love's  words  of  benediction 
the  Palm.     Thus  upon  the  palm-tree  rest: 
"  For  the   boon  so  kindly  given 
To  my  Virgin  Mother  blest, 
Thou  shalt  grow  in  fields  celestial, 
O  thou  grand  and  gracious  tree! 
And  thy  verdant  branches  ever 
Shall  the  victor's  emblems  be." 

Swiftly   throng   His   white-winged   angels, 
And  those  sacred  boughs  they  bear 
To  a  fadeless  life  immortal 
In  the   Heavenly  kingdom  fair; 
And  the  martyr-bands  that  bravely 
Cross  the  cruel  Crimson  Sea 
E'er  His   Land  of  Promise  enter 
Bearing  palms  of  victory! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  MONK 
FERNANDO. 

GOOD    Brother    Fernando,    with    grateful 
eye, 

Looked  forth,  in  the  springtide  fair, 
On  the  smiling  bloom  of  the  meadow's  nigh, 
On  the  stream  that  sang,  as  it  sparkled  by, 
On  the  bright  trees,  seeking  the  far  blue  sky 
By  the  mountain's  purple  stair. 

And  the  reverent  soul  of  Fernando  caught 

The  echo  of  Nature's  glee; 

And    he    sang,    as    he    lifted    his    Heav'nward 

thought, 

"Laudate!  laudate!  Praise  Him  who  brought 
This  boon  with  beauty  and  gladness  fraught, 
This  joy  of  the  spring  to  me!  " 

72 


But  the  kindly  heart  of  the  monk  grew  sad, 
Rememb'ring  the  joyless  throng  Fernando. 

Of  men,  who  saw  not  the  landscapes,  clad 
In  the  festal  robes  of  the  season  glad, 
And  whose  dulled  spirits  no  echoes  had 
Of  the  fair  Earth's  springtide  song. 

"  '  T  is  the  hour  to  go  from  my  loved  retreat, 
Afar,  on  the  Master's  quest. 
And   perchance   I   may   bring,   in   the   world- 
waste's  heat 

To  weary  spirits  and  wounded  feet 
Some  joy  of  the  springtime  fresh  and  sweet, 
Some  balm  of  its  healing  blest." 

So  Brother  Fernando,  of  gentle  mien, 

Went  forth  from  his  cloisters  fair, — 

From   the    smiling   bloom    of    the    meadow's 

green, 
From  the   stream   that  sang  of  the   peaceful 

scene, 

And  the  trees  that  climbed  to  the  sky  serene 
By  the  mountain's  purple  stair. 

And  a  toilsome  road  was  the  thronged  high 
way, 

Where  the  good  monk  journeyed   soon — 
Where,  foully  gleamed  from  its  dusty  clay 
A  stagnant  pool — and  beside  it  lay 
A  leper,  full  in  the  blinding  ray 
Of  the  fierce  and  fevered  noon. 

The  Pharisees  fled  in  a  wild  affright 
From  the  wretch's  loathsome  scourge, — 
The  babbling  lovers  of  human  right 

73 


°i  ^nc^  *ke  cniefs  who  led  in  the  heroes'  fight 
Fernanao.    In  honor  shrank  from  that  hideous  sight 
At  the  stagnant  water's  verge. 


Good  Brother  Fernando!    alone  he  stays, 
For  his  heart  was  kindly  and  warm; 
He  turned  on  the  stricken  one  tender  gaze, 
Then  the  call  of  his  Christ-like  love  obeys — 
And  the  strong,  true  hands  of  the  brave  monk 

raise 
That  festering,  ghastly  form. 

He  found  true  aim  for  his  Master's  quest, 
And  he  guardeth  his  treasure  well. 
For  he  folds  the  limbs  in  his  sacred  vest, 
And  he  clasps  him  close  to  his  fearless  breast; 
And  bravely  he  beareth  his  loathsome  guest 
To  his  calm,  secluded  cell. 


There  he  lays  on  his  own  couch  tenderly 

The  scarred  and  disfigured  frame. 

"At  peace,"  he  sayeth,  "my  brother,  be; 

For  the  Master's  sake,  thou  art  dear  to  me, 

And  I  will  minister  unto  thee 

In  that  blest   Redeemer's  Name. 


"  I    will    bring    sweet    balm    for    thy    fevered 

head, 

And  thy  body  so  maimed  and  sore." 
Then  swift  on  his  errand  of  love  he  sped, 
As  swift  returned — the  leper  lay  dead! 
But  his  Form  was  cleansed,  and  his  shining 

Head 
A  wonderful  garland  wore! 

74 


Twas  the  Crown  of  Thorns!  and  the  Brow  Legend  of 

.,         ,  the  Monk 

was    dyed  Fernando 

With  the  gems  that  over  it  glowed,— 

The  ruby  drops  of  the  marvelous  Tide 

That   from   Hands,   nail-wounded,   and    Feet, 

and  Side, 
In  a  limitless  Torrent  flowed! 

Then  prone  on  the  floor  of  his  favored  cell 

Good  Brother  Fernando  lay, 

But    a    Voice    far    sweeter    than    wind-harp's 

swell, 

Yet  clearer  than  tones  of  the  minster  bell, 
In  words  like  these  on  his  rapt  ear  fell: 
"Thou  nobly  hast  wrought,  lo-day. 

"And    the    joy    of    the    heavenly    spring    is 

thine, — 

'T  is  the  recompense  due  to  thee, — 
For  the  leper  hath  hidden  thy  King  Divine— 
Ah,  tender  spirit  and  heart  benign! 
What  thou  hast  done  to  the  least  of  mine, 
Behold!    thou  hast  done  it  to  Me!" 


o 


DIVINE   MERCY. 

'ER  all  God's  works  His  mercies  are, — 
_     With  blest,  benignant  light, 
In  sun  and  stars,  from  heights  afar, 
They  shine  through  day  and  night. 
And  though  anon  the  clouds  of  woe 
Across  the  sky  may  sweep, 
And  hide  its  glow  from  vales  below, 
In  shadows  chill  and  deep, 
Yet,  dark  howe'er  those  mists  may  be, 
The  faith-illumined  gaze, 
From  earth-notes  free,  can  clearly  see 

75 


Divine    Those   bright   supernal   rays 
Mercy.    That  show  where  fadeless  Light  Divine 
Beneath  the  storm-cloud  lurks, 
Where  Love  doth  shine,  with  beams  benign, 
Above  His  wondrous  works. 
I  bless  my  God  that  o'er  my  way 
Such  brightness  e'er  hath  shone; 
That  night  and  day  its  tender  ray 
And  fadeless  smile  have  known — 
That  ever  o'er  His  works  thou  art, 
Still  keeping  watch  and  ward 
(Thy  ceaseless  part)  within  my  heart, 
Sweet  mercy  of  my  Lord! 


VIVA,  SAN  FRANCISCO! 

SMILE,  thou  grand  imperial  city, 
On  thy  Bay ! 

I  to  thee,  in  jingling  ditty, 
Tribute  pay! 

While  the  witless  Eastern  comer 

Hither  jogs, 

Sneering  at  thy  breezy  summer, 

With  its  fogs 

Hill   and   valley   coyly   veiling, 

Only  just 

While  our  gay  winds,  eastward  sailing, 

Raise  the  dust. 

Out  upon  his  saucy  high  tone! 

He  who  dwells 

Where  the  fierce  and  fiendish  cyclone 

(Prince  of  swells!) 

Blows  like  braggart  desperado, 

Left  and  right, 


While,  before  that  dread  tornado, 

Ruined  quite, 

Fly  the  houses  and  the  people, 

Sinks  the  town, 

Proudest   dome  and  lofty  steeple, 

Tumbling  down. 

Never  thus  our  climate  varies, 

Ne'er  are  met 

In  our  weather-dictionary's 

Alphabet, 

(Though  you  search  from  A  to  Izzard, 

Give  we  thanks!) 

Fiendish  letters,  spelling  blizzard, 

Of  whose  pranks 

We  have  heard,  with  grief  and  pity, 

How   't  will   spread 

Over  many  an  Eastern  city 

Death  and  dread. 

Oh,  I  '11  gladly  take  my  chances, 

While  life  jogs, 

City  of  the  good  St.  Francis! 

With  thy  fogs, 

And  thy  merry  winds,  that  never 

Work  thee  harm, 

Fresh'ning  e'en  with  fond  endeavor 

Every  charm! 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  NORWEGIAN 
PRINCESS:  A  LEGEND  OF  THE 
ISLE  OF  SKYE. 

MID  the  lone  and  rugged  islands 
That  in  sullen  bondage  lie 
Where  the  raging  Northern  waters 
On  the  rocks  like  wolf-dogs  fly, 
None  so  bleak  and  bloom-forsaken 
As  the  tempest-tortured  Skye. 

77 


To  this  realm  of  stormy  wildness, 
Norwegian    BY  tne  Path  where  billows  roar 
Princess.       'Twixt  it  and  the  rocky  headlands 
Of  the  frowning  Scottish  shore, 
Came  a  band  of  savage  Norsemen 
In  the  far-off  days  of  yore, 


And  a  stern  Norwegian  Princess, — 
Daughter  of  the  Viking  race, — 
With   their  wild,  imperious   beauty 
In  her  haughty  form  and  face, 
Hither  led  those  fierce  invaders 
To  her  chosen  dwelling-place. 

"  For,"  she  said,  "  this  regal  island, 
Throned  on  rocks  of  granite  gray, 
Scorning  rage  of  snarling  waters 
As  the  wrath  of  children's  play, 
Seems  a  sacred  fragment,  broken 
From  our  own  loved  Norroway." 

So  they  brought  their  ships  to  anchor 
Near  the  rugged  shore  of  Skye, 
And  that  stern  Norwegian  princess 
Ruled  its  rocky  summits  high, 
And,  like  eagle  from  her  eyrie, 
Scann'd  her  realm  with  piercing  eye. 


But  a  sickness  fell  upon  her 
In  the  noonday  of  her  reign, 
And  the  fierce  and  fatal  fever 
Burned  and  withered  nerve  and  vein, 
And  the  haughty  heart  was  riven 
By  the  stabbing  spears  of  pain. 

78 


To  her  deathbed,  summoned  swiftly,  Grave 

Came  her  brave  Norwegian  band.    '  °^orwegl 

Woe  is  me!      she  faintly  murmured,          Princess. 
As  they  kissed  her  nerveless  hand. 
"I  shall  never,  O  my  Norsemen! 
Greet  again  our  native  land. 


"  Swear,  then,  by  the  sacred  banner 

To  obey  this  last  behest: 

When  the  death-god's  dart  hath  slain  me, 

To  yon  highest  rocky  crest 

Bear  my  form,  and  on  its  summit 

Fitly  hew  my  place  of  rest. 

"There,  where  storm-clouds  fiercely  battle 

With  the  winds  in  wildest  fray, 

Where  the  kingly  eagle  pauseth, 

Resting  on  his  sunward  way, 

Shall  my  spirit,  from  its  prison, 

Look  toward  my  Norroway." 

To  the  Viking's  royal  daughter 
Loving  heed  her  clansmen  paid. 
Up  the  rugged  steep  they  bore  her, 
In  her  ermine  robes  arrayed, 
And  within  the  mountain's  bosom 
Fitting  tomb  for   her   they  made. 

Long  ago  those  wild  Norwegians 
Left  the  lonely  Isle  of  Skye, 
Where,  as  in  the  vanished  ages, 
Still  the  rocky  coasts  defy 
Frantic  wrath   of  shrieking  \vaters, 
Raging  'neath  the  headlands  high. 

79 


Grave  But  the  hardy  fisher  showeth 

fiSLgim    To  the  pilgrims  of  to-day 
Princess.       Lonely  mound  on  lofty  summit, 

Where,  from  out  her  prison  gray, 
Looks  tha^t  proud  Norwegian  princess 
Northward  to  her  Norroway. 


THE  FIRE  OF  PRAYER. 
A   SCENE  divinely  fair 
1\  From  blest  Tradition's  page, 
A  legend-lesson  rare 
Of  Faith's  illumined  age. 

An  Abbey  gray  and  tall. 
Enthroned  on  rocky  height, 
And  robed  in  evening's  pall 
Of  dim  and  dreamy  light. 
And,  'neath  its  peaceful  roof, 
Where  holy  brethren  dwell 
From   worldly   cares   aloof, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell, 
Behold! — yet  who  can  paint 
The  crowning  picture  there? — 
An   angel-guarded  Saint, 
In  ecstasy  of  prayer! 
A  penance-wasted  frame, 
And  seamed  by  scourge  and  rod- 
A  world-forgotten  name 
High  on  the  scroll  of  God! 

He  knelt,  with  brow  upraised, 
In  adoration  fond, 
With  shining  eyes  that  gazed 
The  jasper  walls  beyond, 
Yet  faintest  whispered  tone 
From  parted  lips  came  not. 

80 


Still  as  the  sculptured  stone  The  Fire 

Upon  that   sacred  spot  of  Prayer. 

The  kneeling  form  remains 

While  hours  like  swift  birds  fly, 

And  deeper  darkness  stains 

The  shining  vesper  sky. 

And  when  the  first  faint  stars 

Steal  out  with  timid  rays 

To  pierce  the  gloom   that  bars 

The  loved  Earth  from  their  gaze, 

A   home-returning  swain 

Looks  up,  in  prayerful  mood, 

To  where  the  abbey  fane 

Uprears  the  saving  Rood. 

Lo!    from  that  cloister  home 

A  tongue  of  glowing  fire! 

It  cleaves  the  stately  dome 

And  wreathes  the  chapel's  spire! 

An  instant  at  the  sight, 

With  horror  dumb,  he  waits — 

Then  swiftly  scales  the  height 

And  thunders  at  the  gates. 

They  hear  his  wild  alarm; 

They  rush  with  footsteps  fleet, 

To  save  from  fiery  harm 

The  Master's  prison  sweet. 

Yet  vain  their  troubled  search 

Within   those    sacred   walls,— 

All  safe  the  lamp-lit  church, 

And  safe  the  darkened  halls. 

But,  stay!  from  'neath  the  door 
Of  one  secluded  cell 
Strange  floods  of  brightness  pour. 
They  enter— who  shall  tell, 
What  human  skill  can  paint, 
The  wondrous  scene  they  saw 
81 


The  Fire      As  on  the  kneeling  Saint 

of  Prayer.     They  gazed  jn   silent  aw£? 

For  from  his  burning  heart — 
Love's  angel-watched  abode — 
Through  smiling  lips  apart 
The  fiery  splendor  flowed! 
Yet,  rapt  in  holy  dream, 
The  throng  he  heeded  not, 
Nor  e'en  the  dazzling  gleam 
That  filled  that  sacred  spot. 
And  he  had  heard  no  sound 
From  pavement  wildly  trod. 
In  ecstasy  profound 
He  dwelt  alone  with  God! 


Amid   those   beams   divine 
A  while  the  brethren  bow 
To  bid  their  halos  shine 
Upon  each  favored  brow. 
And  then  adown  they  steal 
Unto  the  holy  fane, 
To  wake  with  joyous  peal 
A  glad  Te  Deum  strain. 


O  sweetest,  fairest  scene 
From  blest  Tradition's  page! 
May  we  its  lesson  glean, 
To  cheer  this  darkened  age. 
Lord,  teach  my  soul  the  art 
To  win  this  fire  of  prayer 
That   from   the   fervent   heart 
Doth  shed  its  brightness  fair. 
And  though  its  wondrous  glow 
No  human  eye  may  see, 
Oh,  bid  its  radiance  flow 
In  ecstasy  to  Thee ! 

82 


THE  GRACE  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS 
CANDLE:     AN  IRISH   LEGEND. 

OH,  the  Celtic  children  of  faith  believe 
(Sweet,  I  ween,  are  their  fancies  all) 
That  when  the  bless'd  candles,  on  Christmas 

Eve, 

Are  lighted  in  cabin  and  hall, 
The   dear   Child  Jesus,  with  tenderest  smile, 
In  the  noon  of  that  night  sublime 
Doth  visit  each  home  of  their  favored  isle 
While  the  mass-bells  merrily  chime; 
And  where'er  He  seeth  the  hallowed  light 
Of  the  tapers  so  tall  and  fair, 
He  entereth  in  through  the  casement  bright 
And  leaveth  His  benison  there. 
And  oh,  till  He  crowneth  again  the  year 
With  the  glory  of  Christmas-tide 
Shall  blessings  so  sweet  of  the  Christ-Child 

dear 

With  the  children  of  grace  abide. 
Their    crops    shall    thrive    and    their    store 

increase, 

For  never  a  shadow  of  ill 
Can  dim  the  light  of  the  heavenly  peace 
He  bringeth  to  "men  of  good  will." 

"THE  LAMB  IS  THE  LIGHT  THEREOF." 

O  SUNLIGHT!    gilding  land  and  sea 
In  Summer's  glorious  noon! 
Earth's  favored  regions  welcome  thee 
As  best  and  brightest  boon. 

O  moonlight!    shedding  silv'ry  rays 
O'er  many  a  sleeping  vale! 
Ecstatic  poets   sing  thy  praise, 
Thy  soft,  sweet  splendors  hail. 

83 


'  The  Lamb       Q  star-beams!    set,  as  jewels  rare, 
Thereof?'       Within  the  darkling  skies, 

And   watching  there   with   loving  care, 

Like  myriad  angel  eyes. 

And  firelight,  lode-star  of  the  home! 
Thence  drawing  love-linked  hearts — 
'Neath  lowly  roof  or  lofty  dome 
What  joy  thy  flame  imparts! 

But  golden  sun,  and  silv'ry  rays, 
And  stars  that  pilgrims  hail, 
And  firelight,  tender  theme  of  praise, 
Ye  are  but  shadows  pale 

Of  Light  that  floods  with  glow  serene 
Love's   kingdom, — saith   His  Word, — 
Whose  wonders  "  eye  hath  never  seen, 
Nor  ear  of  mortal  heard." 

Earth's  beams  combined  too  feebly  shine 

For  realms  of  bliss  above — 

For,  O  the  glorious  Lamb  Divine 

"  Is  e'er  the  Light  thereof." 

Lord,  let  me  on  that  glory  gaze, 
Where  swells  this  ceaseless  strain: 
"Unto  the  Lamb  be  endless  praise, 
Once  for  His  creatures  slain." 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW. 
REEN-ROBED,  and  crowned  with  sunny 

gleam, 

That  graceful,  goodly  tree 
Once  grew  beside  a  crystal  stream 
In  region  fair  to  see. 
It  drooped  not  then  its  branches  bright, 

84 


But  high,  in  gleeful  pride,  Legend 

It  bade  them  rise  to  hail  the  light  keepin 

And  cast  their  shadows  wide.  Willow. 

And  ever  from  its  inmost  heart 

It  sang  in  ceaseless  joy, 

"  Oh,   nought   can   bid   my   bliss   depart, 

My  happiness  destroy!  " 

But  'mid  its  boughs,  in  answ'ring  strain, 

The  wind  that  swept  the  lea 

Forever  wailed  this  one  refrain: 

"Alas!  unhappy  tree!" 

And  mingling  with  that  murmur  sad, 

The  streamlet  moaned  below: 

"  Oh,  never  let  thy  heart  be  glad, 

Thou  willow,  doomed  to  woe!" 

And  from  its  leaves  the  bird-note  rang 

No  more  in  songs  of  glee, — 

There,  too,  that  mourning  minstrel  sang: 

"Alas!    unhappy  tree!" 

Ah!    then  a  deeper  wrathful  glow 

Shone  on  each  sunlit  leaf, 

As  thus  it  cried:    "Cease,  sounds  of  woe! 

I  need  no  pitying  grief. 

But  ever  from  my  inmost  heart 

I  '11  sing  in  endless  joy, — 

For  nought  can  bid  my  bliss  depart, 

My  happiness  destroy!" 

A  dismal  dawning  came  at  last, 

When   carols   ceased  on   high, 

When  wildly  shrieked  the  stormy  blast. 

And  wept  the  sable  sky; 

And  men  with  dark  and  sullen  brows 

Strode  sternly  o'er  the  lea, 

8s 


offtined     £nd  Paused  beneath  thy  verdant  boughs, 
Weeping    Th°u  graceful,  goodly  tree! 


.  Veeping 

Willow. 


From  every  slender  swaying  limb 
Its   shining   robes   they   flayed, 
And  of  those  boughs,  in  silence  grim, 
The  cruel  scourges  made 
That  on  the  Man-God's  sacred  Flesh 
With   blows   relentless   fell, 
Thence  bidding  torrents  ever  fresh 
Of  saving  Life-Blood  well. 

Ah  !  then  the  hapless  willow  knew 

Why  on  its  native  lea 

The  wind  had  wailed  in  warning  true, 

"Alas!    unhappy  tree!  " 

Why  bird-notes  joined  that  murmur  sad, 

And  streamlet  moaned  below: 

"  Oh,  never  let  thy  heart  be  glad, 

Thou  willow,  doomed  to  woe!" 

It  lifts  no  more  its  branches  bright 

Aloft  in  gleeful  pride; 

They  never  rise  to  hail  the  light 

And  cast  their  shadows  wide. 

But  now,  with  sadly  drooping  stems, 

The  mournful  willow  grieves, 

And  now  the  streamlet's  sorrow  gems 

Its  earthward-bending  leaves. 

A  THOUGHT  OF  EMERSON  (VERSIFIED). 

EACH  ill  our  souls  successfully  resist 
Henceforth  our  benefactor  is,   I  wist. 
As  the  wild  warriors  of  the  Southern  main 
Deem   the   whole   strength   of   every  foeman 
slain 

86 


By  their  brave  hands  is  added  to  the  dower      A  Thought 
Their  own   frames   had,  thus   giving   godlike  °f  Emers°n 

power 

To  nerve  and  tendon, — so  Temptation's  might 
(By  us  o'ercome  in  persevering  fight) 
Unto  our  true  hearts  passeth,  till  at  length 
Well-nigh  divine  shall  be  our  spirit-strength. 


A  SAYING  OF  ANTONINUS   (VERSIFIED). 

NOUGHT   others'  words   and  actions   are 
to  me, 

Whose  business  is  to  keep  unswervingly 
The  honest  road,  and  to  myself  the  same 
Wise    rule    express    a    piece    of    gold    would 

frame 

Or  sparkling  emerald,  if  each  had  the  sense 
Its  plan  to  tell,  by  speech's  eloquence: 
Let  other  gems  reflect  the  heav'nly  ray 
Howe'er  they  please;  in  my  appointed  way 
I  '11  woo  the  sunlight,  and,  contented,  shine 
True  to  the  color  and  the  species  mine. 


A  THOUGHT  OF  HOLMES  (VERSIFIED). 
'THHE  greatest  thing,  I  find,  is  not 
JL    So  much   (while  here  below) 
Where  we  have  made  our  standing-spot 
As  in  which  way  we  go. 

To  reach  the  Heavenly  Port  we  must 

With  the  wind  sometimes  sail, 

And  sometimes  'gainst  it;  but,  with  trust 

In  Heaven,  we  must  not  fail 

The  speeding  canvas  still  to  lift, 

Nor  anchored  lie,  nor  idly  drift. 

87 


''LEARN  OF  ME."* 

MY  Master's  Heart  so  tender! 
Can  I  Thy  praise  bestow? 
Or  for  Thy  favors  render 
The  grateful  meed  I  owe? 
Sweet  shrine  of  Love  immortal! 
Who  shall  Thy  charms  reveal? 
O  Heaven,  unlock  Thy  portal! 
Let  earth  their  secret  steal! 

Meek  Heart!   in  peace  unbroken 
Bid  us  Thy  lesson  learn, 
And  thus  each  prize  and  token 
Of  Thy  rich  bounty  earn. 
When  in  Thy  school  of  duty 
Our  hearts  shall  pupils  be, 
O  Heaven,  in  bliss  and  beauty 
Then  Earth  will  copy  Thee! 

From  out  His  sanctuary 
Love's  king  doth  still  impart 
His  precept  salutary: 
"  Like  Me,  be  meek  of  heart!  " 
He  speaks  thus  from  our  altars, 
As  once  from  Calvary's  crest, 
O  Heaven,  aid  Earth  that  falters 
To  keep  His  sweet  behest! 


THE  TIDINGS  OF  GREAT  JOY." 

HARK!    O  error-darkened  age! 
To  that  wondrous  Birthday  story 
On  the  blest  Evangel-page, 
Traced  in  lines  of  deathless  glory, 
*  From  the  French. 

88 


And  by  chosen  heralds  told  "Tidings  of 

Unto   "men   of  good  will  "— list'ning  Great  Joy." 

Where,  above  their  guarded  fold, 
Faith's  celestial  beams  are  glisfning, — 

Where  through  Life's  long  midnight  deep 
Favor'd  watchers,  meek  and  lowly, 
Glad,   ecstatic  vigils  keep, 
Bowed   before    Love's   brightness   holy. 

For  He  leads  your  Christmas-quest, 
Hearts  that  linger  not  nor  falter, 
Till  ye  find  your  saving  Guest 
Cradled  on  His  Truth's  bright  altar. 


TIMES  FLOWERS— THE  DAYS. 

WHILE  Earth  is  glad  and  skies  are  gay 
With   ever-bright'ning  glow. 
Time  bids  the  blossoms  of  To-day 
To  fair  perfection   grow. 

They  fade  at  last;  in  Night's  deep  gloom. 
The  grave  of  sunset  ray, 
Lies  buried  all  that  withered  bloom 
Of  pale,  dead  Yesterday. 

Yet,  lo!    when  countless  starry  eyes 
Have  shed  their  dewy  sorrow. 
From  out  that  mystic  grave  shall  rise 
The  bright  buds  of  To-morrow. 

89 


THE   GLASTONBURY   THORN.* 

E  who  above  the  Victim  bent, 
When  Love's  dread  tragedy  was  o'er, 


H 


And  to  his  own  "new  monument' 

The  body  of  his  Saviour  bore, 

In  after  years,  a  toiler  blest, 

Within  the  Master's  vineyard  wrought, 

And  gladly,  at  Divine  behest, 

The  Pagan  soil  of  Britain  sought. 


On  that  Day's  Eve  which  now  we  keep 

With    grateful    joy — our    Christmas    merry — 

The  wearied  traveler  lay  asleep 

Upon  the  heath  at  Glastonbury. 

And  lo!  his  staff  of  carven  thorn, 

Beside  him  planted  in  the  snow, 

When  sweetly  dawned  the  Sacred  Morn, 

With   fragrant  bloom   was   all   aglow! 


And  since  that  time  it  blossoms  still 
At  each  return  of  Christmas  merry, 
And  pilgrims  greet  with  awe-struck  thrill 
The  wondrous  thorn  of   Glastonbury, 
That,  when  the  groves  are  dry  and  sere, 
And   ruin   reigns   in   Summer   bowers, 
Gleams  brightly  'mid  the  Christmas  cheer, 
With  fairest  wealth  of  fragrant  flowers! 

*A  well-known  old  English  legend  tells  that  Joseph  of  Ari- 
mathea  (sent  as  missionary  to  Briton)  when  weary  with 
travel  fell  asleep,  on  Christmas  Eve,  on  the  heath  at  Glaston 
bury.  His  staff  of  white  thorn,  standing  beside  him  in  the 
snow,  was  covered  when  Christmas  Day  dawned  with  snow- 
white,  perfumed  flowers,  and  it  is  still  said  to  blossom  every 
year  at  the  coming  of  the  Redeemer's  Birthday. 

QO 


I 


THE  SACRED  HEART. 

MMORTAL  Casket!  meet  to  shrine 
The  Ruby  Gems  of  Love  Divine! 
Clear   Vase!   whose   crystal  walls   inclose 
The  crimson  sheen  of  Mercy's  Rose! 
Unmeasured    Chalice!    ever    filled 
With  saving  Wine,  so  freely  spilled, 
That  all  a  deluged  world  is  dyed 
With  that  pure  Life-Blood's  purple  tide. 

O  Casket,  let  thy  jewel's  gleam 

O'er    darkest    souls    benignly    stream! 

O  Vase,  give  now  thy  Royal  Flower 

To  blossom  in  our  desert  bower! 

O'erflowing  Chalice!  let  each  heart 

Be  fashioned  with  celestial  art 

To   Thy   Similitude    Divine 

To  hold  Thy  life-bestowing  Wine! 


THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE  IS  CHARITY." 
HP  HREE  kindly  angels,  crowned  with  light, 
i     Illume  our  way  through  darkest  night. 
Safe   shall   they   rest   in    realms   above 
Who  follow  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love. 

But  Hope  must  die,  her  mission  done, 
Where  blissful  certainty  is  won. 
And  Faith,  when  "  face  to  face  "  \ve  see, 
Is   lost   in   glad   Reality. 

One  fadeth  not,   one   dieth  ne'er, — 
But,  robed  in  Heavenly  radiance  fair, 
Shall  keep  through  endless  years  above 
Her  glorious  name — Immortal  Love! 

91 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SYRIAN  ROSE. 

AT    dawn    of    that      wonderful      Christmas 
morn 
When  the  "  Light  of  the  World,"  for  its  sake, 

was  born, 

His  angels  witnessed  a  miracle  fair 
By  the  Child-God  wrought  in  the  wilderness 

bare. 
When    the    first    sweet    glance    of    His    Love 

shone  out 
O'er    the    cold    waste    stretching    His    cave 

about, 

Lo!  the  air  grew  soft  with  a  warmth  benign, 
In  the  sunlike  smile  of  the  Babe  Divine: 
And    where    the    lone    desert    had   spread   all 

gray 

In  the  wintry  twilight  of  yesterday, 
Fresh  emerald  meadows  now  gave  repose 
To  the  dewy  leaves  of  the  Syrian  rose. 

When  His  race  uplifted  the   Crucified, 

And   the   "  Life  of  the   World "   for   its   dear 

sake  died, 

The  angels  saw,  in  that  strange  death-hour, 
The  wondrous  love  of  His  Christmas-flower. 
For  the  rose  that  oped  when  the  Holy  Child 
O'er  the  dreary  plains  of  His  Bethlehem 

smiled 

Had  followed  the  path  of  His  footsteps  slow, 
As  feebly  they  toiled  up  the  Mount  of  Woe, 
Till  its  roots  were  planted,  its  petals  clung 
Round     the     Cross     where     the     Blood-dyed 

Victim  hung — 
But   it   withered   and   drooped,   as    His   death 

drew  nigh. 

And  folded  its  leaves  at  its  Lord's  last  sigh, 
92 


And  the  Man-God  smiled,  in  His  Life's  own 

Close,  "Syrian 

On  the  loyal  love  of  His  Syrian  rose.  Rose 

At  the  dawn  of  that  wonderful  Day  of  Days, 
When   the    "  Light    of   the   World,"   with   its 

deathless  rays, 
Streamed  up  from  the  tomb  (for  that  world 

a  sign 

That  its  life  was  won  by  a  Life  Divine), 
Lp!  His  blest  rose  opened,  to  fade  no  more 
Till  the  lengthened  journey  of  Time  is  o'er. 
It  smiles  in  the  garden,  it  brightens  the  vale, 
And   its    sweet   breath    scenteth   the    summer 

gale — 

But,  fairest  at  Easter-tide,  e'er  unclose 
The  wondrous  leaves  of  that  Miracle-rose, 
And  the  gleam  of  its  ecstasy  seems  to  say: 
"Rejoice!    He  is  risen!     'T  is   Easter  Day!" 


THE   DAISY  AND  THE  STAR. 

WE  are  sisters! — we  are  sisters!" 
Sang  the   Daisy  to  the   Star, 
As  she  watched  her  softly  shining 
In  the  vesper  sky  afar. 
"  Though  you  bloom  within  the  heavens 
And   I   gem   the   earthly   sod, 
We  are  Love's  own  blest  creation, — 
We  are  each  the  smile  of  God!  " 

"Aye,  we're  sisters, — happy  sisters!" 
Sang   the    Star   in    sweet    reply 
To  the  meadow's  starlike  blossom, 
From  her  gleaming  home  on  high. 
"  I  the  flower  of  fields  celestial, 

93 


The  Daisy       YOU  the  star  of  earthly  sod: 

and  the  Star.     Wfi   ^    Love,s    Qwn    bkst    creadon  _ 

We  are  each  the  smile  of  God!  " 

Thus  they  sang  their  joyous   greeting, 
As  they  bloomed  in  beauty  bright, 
While   the   swift-winged   hours   were  fleeting 
Of  the   fragrant   summer  night; 
Downward   from   the   azure   star-fields, 
Upward  from  the  em'rald  sod, 
Rang  their  chorus:    "We  are  sisters, 
And  the  tender  smiles  of  God!" 


THE  SAINT'S  SHADOW. 

"  I  ^OLD  in  legend,  old  and  quaint, 
JL     Sweet  this  tale  of  unknown  Saint, 
Pure-souled,   free   from   selfish   taint, — 
Walked  his  feet  in  lowly  ways, 
Calmly  sped  his  sinless  days, 
Filled  with  fervent  prayer  and  praise 
As  a  flower  on  dewy  sward 
Is  with  balm.    Then  spake  his  Lord: 
"  Though  thou   seekest  no   reward, 
Yet  thy  life  so  pleaseth  Me, 
Gift  Divine  I  offer  thee — 
Choose  thou   what  the  boon  shall  be." 
Thus  the  Saint,  in  answer,  pleads: 
"  Grant  me  strength  for   Heav'nly   deeds 
Given  to  all   human  needs 
For  Thy  sake,  as  on  I  go. 
Yet,  ah!  never  must  I  know 
That  from  me  the  graces  flow." 
"  As  thou  wilt,"  his  Lord  replied, 
So,  as  forth  his  footsteps  hied 
Through  the  busy   highways   wide, 
Or  where  lonely  sufferers  dwell, 

94       ' 


Wheresoe'er  his  shadow  fell, 

With  the  needy  all  was  well—  Shadow. 

Ills  were  cured,  and  sorrows  fled, 

O'er  each  path  was  sunlight  shed — 

E'en  the  soul  in  evil  dead, 

As   the   dry,  long-withered  flower, 

Gained  once  more  its  deathless  dower 

Through  that  shadow's  wondrous  power. 

Yet  the  Saint  had  nought  of  fame — 

Knew  not  whence  the  graces  came, 

And  no  echo  rang  his  name 

For  these  wondrous  deeds  of  love, 

Till  the  wings  of  Holy  Dove 

Bore   him   to   his   Home   above 

And,  all  toils  and  trials  o'er, 

Low  he  knelt  his  Lord  before, 

Crowned  to  be  for  evermore. 

Now,  through  Heaven's  immortal  days, 

Seraphs  sing  his  fitting  praise. 

Guerdon  thus  his  Master  pays 

For  the  loving  deeds  that  he 

Once  performed  unconsciously, 

Self-hid,  in  humility. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

HE  Old  Year  lieth  out  of  sight, 

Deep  buried  'neath  the  winter  snow, 
Where,  through  the  long,  dark  Arctic  nights, 
Weird  banners  of  the  Northern  Lights 
Above  him  stream  with  lurid  glow. 


T 


So  let  us  leave  him  to  his  rest, 
And  hail  the  New  Year,  blithe  and  free, 
Who  comes  in  royal  raiment  dressed, 
And  fain  would  be  a  welcome  guest 
And  sharer  in  our  festal  glee. 

95 


<yrc        Then   let   our  fairest   gifts  be   stored 
New  Year.    ^n  sunny  hearts  and  homes  for  him — 
Heap  high  the  richest  banquet  board, 
And  let  the  beaded  wine  be  poured 
Until   it   crown  the  beaker's  brim. 

How  brightly  gleams  his  regal  vest! 
With  rainbow  hues  from  blossoms  shed 
The  "  rose  of  dawn  "  is  on  his  breast, 
And  sunset  splendors  of  the  West 
Are  o'er  his  kingly  mantle  spread. 

Within  his  crown  what  jewels  blaze! 
Rich  treasures  of  the  seasons  bright — 
Spring's  moonlit  beams  and  starry  rays, 
Sweet   Summer's   wealth   of  golden   days, 
And    Winter's    gems    of   crystal    light. 

What  odors  freight   his   balmy  breath! 
Glad  tribute  of  each  blooming  bower — 
For,  when  its  petals  fade  in  death, 
To  him  fond  Nature  rendereth 
The  last  pure  life-sigh  of  the  flower. 

All  blended  tones  of  sweetness  bring 

The  varied  music  of  their  lays. 

The   song  that  birds  and  brooklets  sing, 

The  soft  low  hum  of  insect  wing, 

Borne    sweetly   through   the    changeful    days. 

Then  hail  the  King,  as  from  the  East 
He  comes  with  Day's  Auroral  Star. 
Ring  out  the  chime,  and  spread  the  feast, 
And  bid  the  greatest  with  the  least 
Unite  their  welcomes,  near  and  far. 


Behold!   he  flingeth  everywhere  AfS°th 

His  bounty  bright  in  gleaming  showers —         New  Yeat 
His  jewel-moments,  rich  and  rare, 
That  twine  themselves  in  chaplets  fair 
To  form  the  rainbow-tinted  hours. 

Oh,  may  we  set  those  priceless  gems 

In  golden  deed,  and  word,  and  thought! 

That  angel  hands  may  fashion  them 

Into  a  glorious  diadem, 

A  crown  of  light,  divinely  wrought. 

Then,  while  on  pinions  softly  swift 
The  last  swift  year  of  Time  shall  flee, 
Our  radiant  brows  we  may  uplift, 
Encrowned  with  each  bright  New  Year's  gift, 
To  shine  through  glad  Eternity. 


I 


THE  SILVER  DOVE:  A  LEGEND. 

FAIN  would  weave  in  simple  rhyme 
This  tale  most  sweet  of  olden  time. 
Abode  not  then  our   Prisoned   Love 
Behind  the  altar's   "  Golden    Door," 
But  hung,  that  altar  lifted  o'er, 
His  Home  a  silver  dove. 


T  was  thus  within  a  convent  where 
The  Abbess  kept  with  tender  care 
A  well-loved  niece,  an  orphan  child. 
Columba  was  her  gentle  name, — 
A  title   sweet,  that  well  became 
The  dovelike  maiden  mild. 

97 


The      FUII  oft  she  saw  those  favored  ones, 

The    white-robed    band    of    holy    nuns, 
Receive  the  Saving  Bread  Divine, 
And  e'er,  as  on  their  bliss   she  gazed. 
Her  longing  eyes  were  fondly  raised 
Unto  the   Silver  Shrine. 


All  humbly  then  that  little  maid 
Before   the   Abbess,   kneeling,   prayed: 
"  Ah!   let  me,  too,  that  feast  partake!  " 
"  Thou  art  too  young,"  the  nun  replied, — 
"  Next  year  thou  shalt,  at  Easter-tide, 
Thy   First   Communion   make." 


Not  yet  was  calmed  that  yearning  heart: 

In   chapel   dim   she   knelt   apart, 

And  softly  sighed:  "Descend,  O  Dove! 

And  on  thy  shining  silver  wing 

E'en  unto  me,  oh  haste  to  bring 

The   Precious   Food   of  Love." 


But  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
She   pined   in   silent   grief  away, 
Until  to  walk  too  feeble  grown, 
She  bade  the  nuns  her  slight  form  bear 
Within  the  Church,  and  leave  her  there 
Beneath  the   Dove  alone. 


But  one  who  loved  the  holy  child, 

Whose  heart,  like  hers,  was  meek  and  mild, 

Behind  her  knelt,  in  musings  blest, 

And  heard  the  sigh:  "Descend,  O  Dove! 

And  bring  the  Gracious  Lord  of  Love 

To  be  my  sacred  guest." 

98 


And  lo!  the  kneeling  watcher  saw 
(While  thrilled  her  very  soul  with  awe) 
The  dove  that  o'er  the  maiden  hung 
Float  softly  to  that  child  of  grace, 
And  from  its  bright  beak,  opened,  place 
The  Host  upon  her  tongue! 

Ah!  swiftly  then  the  favored  one 
Who  saw  that  Heavenly  marvel  done 
To  call  her  holy  sisters  sped — 
But,  lo!  the  dove  on  upward  way 
Had  soared  again— and,  'neath  it,  lay 
Their   sweet    Columba — dead! 


99 


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•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

DFf!  1  8  1QQ7 


12,000(11/95) 


YA  01667 


